A friend sent me this, this morning. I almost burst laughting.
All hair removal methods have tricked women with their promises of easy, painless removal - The Epilady, scissors, razors, Nair and now...the wax. Read on..........
My night began as any other normal weeknight. Come home, fix dinner, playwith the kids. I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours: "Maybe I should pull the waxing kit out ofthe medicine cabinet."
So I headed to the site of my demise: the bathroom. It was one of those "cold wax" kits. No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the strips together in your hand, they get warm and you peel them apart and press them to your leg (or wherever else) and you pull the hair right off.
No muss, no fuss. How hard can it be? I mean, I'm not a genius, but I am mechanically inclined enough to figure this out. (YA THINK!?!)
So I pull one of the thin strips out. Its two strips facing each other stuck together. Instead of rubbing them together, my genius kicks in so I get out the hair dryer and heat it to 1000 degrees. ("Cold wax,"yeah...right!) I lay the strip across my thigh. Hold the skin around it tight and pull. It works!
OK, so it wasn't the best feeling, but it wasn't too bad. I can do this! Hair removal no longer eludes me! I am She-rah, fighter of all way wardbody hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire.
With my next wax strip I move north. After checking on the kids, I sneak back into the bathroom, for the ultimate hair fighting championship. I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet.
Using the same procedure, I apply the wax strip across the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of my hoo-ha and stretching down to the inside of my butt cheek (it was a long strip) I inhale deeply andbrace myself....RRRRIIIPPP!!!!
I'm blind!!! Blinded from pain!!!!....OH MY GAWD!!!!!!!!!
Vision returning, I notice that I've only managed to pull off half the strip. CRAP! Another deep breath and RIPP! Everything is spinning and spotted. I think I may pass out...must stay conscious...must stay conscious. Do I hear crashing drums??? Breathe, breathe...OK, back to normal.
I want to see my trophy - a wax covered strip, the one that has caused me so much pain, with my hairy pelt sticking to it. I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair. I hold up the strip!
There's no hair on it.
Where is the hair??? WHERE IS THE WAX???
Slowly I ease my head down, foot still perched on the toilet. I see the hair. The hair that should be on the strip...it's not! I touch. I am touching wax.
I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which is now covered in cold wax and matted hair. Then I make the next BIG mistake... remember my foot is still propped up on the toilet? I know I need to do something. So I put my foot down. Sealed shut! My butt is sealed shut. Sealed shut!
I penguin walk around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do and think to myself "Please don't let me get the urge to poop. My head may pop off!" What can I do to melt the wax?
Hot water!! Hot water melts wax!! I'll run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in, immerse the wax-covered bits and the wax should melt and I can gently wipe it off, right???
*WRONG!!!!!!!*
I get in the tub - the water is slightly hotter than that used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment - I sit.
Now, the only thing worse than having your nether regions glued together, is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of the tub... in scalding hot water. Which, by the way, doesn't melt cold wax.
So, now I'm stuck to the bottom of the tub as though I had cemented myself to the porcelain!! God bless the man who had convinced me a few months ago to have a phone put in the bathroom!!!!!
I call my friend, thinking surely she has waxed before and has some secret of how to get me undone. It's a very good conversation starter "So, my butt and hoo-ha are glued together to the bottom of the tub!"
There is a slight pause. She doesn't know any secret tricks for removal but she does try to hide her laughter from me. She wants to know exactly where the wax is located, "Are we talking cheeks or hole or hoo-ha?"
She's laughing out loud by now... I can hear her. I give her the rundown and she suggests I call the number on the side of the box.
YEAH!!!!! Right!! I should be the joke of someone else's night. While we go through various solutions. I resort to trying to scrape the wax off with a razor. Nothing feels better than to have your girlie goodies covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the tub in super hot water and then dry-shaving the sticky wax off!! By now the brain is not working, dignity has taken a major hike and I'm pretty sure I'm going to need Post-Traumatic Stress counseling for this event.
My friend is still talking with me when I finally see my saving grace....the lotion they give you to remove the excess wax.
What do I really have to lose at this point?
I rub some on and OH MY GAWD!!!!!!! The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out of my friend. It's sooo painful, but I reallydon't care. "IT WORKS!! It works !!" I get a hearty congratulation from my friend and she hangs up.
I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice to my grief and despair....THE HAIR IS STILL THERE.......ALL OF IT!
So I recklessly shave it off. Heck, I'm numb by now. Nothing hurts. I could have amputated my own leg at this point.
Next week I'm going to try hair color......
----------------------------------------------
Man, she's worse than me. Hope you enjoyed.
Ginger
Monday, November 5, 2007
Saturday, November 3, 2007
More Monday Monday
Where were we? Oh, yeah, dumping the black tank.
Now we have a few gallons of fresh water in the black tank which we can dump. This will leave the tank somewhat cleaner inside but mainly, we want to rinse the hose so it's not too gross when we unclamp it to dump the grey tank.
All that's required is to pull the valve. See previous posting. Being a smartypants and a real dumping expert now, I decide to do it standing up. Now, like most things that are meant to be done lying down and are attempted standing up, the results are seldom as satisfactory as one would like. And furthermore one is courting absolute disaster.
There I am, pulling like a plowhorse, when my left ankle twists, I hear a sickening crunch and down I go on my butt giving my shin a hard rap on the underside of LL. The crunch is my ankle who has decided that she's had enough for one day. As an aside, the valve is now open, completing the draining and rinsing of the black tank. I close the valve and remove the hose. And cuss for awhile
No sense getting up: I'm really getting the hang of this crab-walking. I skoot forward a tad and attempt to remove the grey cap. It is absolutely not coming off. I'm going to have to get help from the dwindling population hereabouts. This I can't do from a seated position so I have to get up. (I feel like the old lady in the ad, "Help, I've fallen down and can't get up!")
Consider for a moment the mechanics of getting up from a lying down on the ground position to a standing up position. Unless you have a crane or forklift handy, it generally calls for a certain amount of force pushing down on your feet, extending your leg muscles and a modicum of balance. Being down one ankle, I end up dragging myself over to the fence and levering myself up by sheer force of will. I hobble off, down the road and come across a few burly lads. With my best smile, I ask if there are any white knights around.
I rope in my sucker, er saviour, and lead him back to the rig. I explain my situation and ask him if he would be kind enough to crank off the cap. My real hope is that he will take pity on my various injuries and horrible day and just dump the darn tank for me, but no, he removes the cap (thank you) and re-joins his buddies and their beers, wishing me a better afternoon. I click on the hose and, will miracles never end, pull the valve which opens with only token resistance. I know I should rinse this too but screw it. I'm done with waste fluids and hoses and squirming around under the RV. The hose won't uncouple anyway. Fine. It can stay on all winter. I'm replacing it in the spring anyway. I close the valve and repeat the fence thing to return to vertical.
Let's get the fridge emptied. No problem. The fridge, freezer and pantry add up to about five grocery bags of food. Time to go back to the old site to get the van. Then, throw the bags into the van and Ruby and I will be off, drop off the keys for the winterizing people and home. Off I hobble.
Will the blessings never cease to rain down upon me. The van won't start. It cranks and cranks but won't catch. Maybe one cylinder, once in a while but essentially, we're not going anywhere. This is a vehicle that started up no problem at the turn of the key a couple of hours ago. Shit. I hobble off to the office (10 minute walk for the able-bodied). Maybe Rocky's still here. He's a mechanic. Just go over to his site (on the opposite side of the property) and check.
Off I go, my clothes are sweat soaked where they aren't stained and muddy, blood has seeped through the band-aids on my arm, my hair is plastered to my head and neck, my right shin is throbbing, my arm is still stinging and my left ankle is shooting arrows of pain up my left leg. I am in one of the rings of Hell and there is no escape.
If I had been thinking clearly I would have merely plugged in the hydro, replaced everything in the fridge and stayed until Tuesday when everything was open and I was feeling better. But I never said I was any good in an emergency. All I have going for me is stubbornness.
I get to Rocky's site and he's working on the facilities a couple of sites over but he is kind enough to come over and listen to my sad tale. He promises to join me at the van in 15 minutes. I go back to LL and fire up the cab air and direct all four dash vents in my direction. Ahhhhh.
Needless to say, Rocky is unable to get the van going. It's probably the computer, he opines. Great.
So Lazy Lady and I abandon the van and drive home. Tomorrow is another day and all will be attended to then.
We get home and the first bag of groceries springs a leak somewhere between Lady and the house. I leave a trail of produce and a jar of pickles between the two. One last raspberry from the camping pixies.
Ginger
Now we have a few gallons of fresh water in the black tank which we can dump. This will leave the tank somewhat cleaner inside but mainly, we want to rinse the hose so it's not too gross when we unclamp it to dump the grey tank.
All that's required is to pull the valve. See previous posting. Being a smartypants and a real dumping expert now, I decide to do it standing up. Now, like most things that are meant to be done lying down and are attempted standing up, the results are seldom as satisfactory as one would like. And furthermore one is courting absolute disaster.
There I am, pulling like a plowhorse, when my left ankle twists, I hear a sickening crunch and down I go on my butt giving my shin a hard rap on the underside of LL. The crunch is my ankle who has decided that she's had enough for one day. As an aside, the valve is now open, completing the draining and rinsing of the black tank. I close the valve and remove the hose. And cuss for awhile
No sense getting up: I'm really getting the hang of this crab-walking. I skoot forward a tad and attempt to remove the grey cap. It is absolutely not coming off. I'm going to have to get help from the dwindling population hereabouts. This I can't do from a seated position so I have to get up. (I feel like the old lady in the ad, "Help, I've fallen down and can't get up!")
Consider for a moment the mechanics of getting up from a lying down on the ground position to a standing up position. Unless you have a crane or forklift handy, it generally calls for a certain amount of force pushing down on your feet, extending your leg muscles and a modicum of balance. Being down one ankle, I end up dragging myself over to the fence and levering myself up by sheer force of will. I hobble off, down the road and come across a few burly lads. With my best smile, I ask if there are any white knights around.
I rope in my sucker, er saviour, and lead him back to the rig. I explain my situation and ask him if he would be kind enough to crank off the cap. My real hope is that he will take pity on my various injuries and horrible day and just dump the darn tank for me, but no, he removes the cap (thank you) and re-joins his buddies and their beers, wishing me a better afternoon. I click on the hose and, will miracles never end, pull the valve which opens with only token resistance. I know I should rinse this too but screw it. I'm done with waste fluids and hoses and squirming around under the RV. The hose won't uncouple anyway. Fine. It can stay on all winter. I'm replacing it in the spring anyway. I close the valve and repeat the fence thing to return to vertical.
Let's get the fridge emptied. No problem. The fridge, freezer and pantry add up to about five grocery bags of food. Time to go back to the old site to get the van. Then, throw the bags into the van and Ruby and I will be off, drop off the keys for the winterizing people and home. Off I hobble.
Will the blessings never cease to rain down upon me. The van won't start. It cranks and cranks but won't catch. Maybe one cylinder, once in a while but essentially, we're not going anywhere. This is a vehicle that started up no problem at the turn of the key a couple of hours ago. Shit. I hobble off to the office (10 minute walk for the able-bodied). Maybe Rocky's still here. He's a mechanic. Just go over to his site (on the opposite side of the property) and check.
Off I go, my clothes are sweat soaked where they aren't stained and muddy, blood has seeped through the band-aids on my arm, my hair is plastered to my head and neck, my right shin is throbbing, my arm is still stinging and my left ankle is shooting arrows of pain up my left leg. I am in one of the rings of Hell and there is no escape.
If I had been thinking clearly I would have merely plugged in the hydro, replaced everything in the fridge and stayed until Tuesday when everything was open and I was feeling better. But I never said I was any good in an emergency. All I have going for me is stubbornness.
I get to Rocky's site and he's working on the facilities a couple of sites over but he is kind enough to come over and listen to my sad tale. He promises to join me at the van in 15 minutes. I go back to LL and fire up the cab air and direct all four dash vents in my direction. Ahhhhh.
Needless to say, Rocky is unable to get the van going. It's probably the computer, he opines. Great.
So Lazy Lady and I abandon the van and drive home. Tomorrow is another day and all will be attended to then.
We get home and the first bag of groceries springs a leak somewhere between Lady and the house. I leave a trail of produce and a jar of pickles between the two. One last raspberry from the camping pixies.
Ginger
Monday, October 29, 2007
Monday Monday
Thanksgiving Day - Monday
The day begins with blue sky and warm. Now remember, Grangeways is a swamp. What happens when you heat a swamp? You get a sauna.
By the time Ruby and I get back to Lady, around 8:00, I am dripping. Great day to be running around, packing and crawling around dumping the waste tanks - for the first time ever.
8:30 - the Wild Child begins his shift.
To-day is a bit sad. This is my last time in Lady for the year. This may be the first real winter for her.I won't be back 'till May 2008. There will be a lot of "last"s to-day.
I have breakfast including coffee from the crappy coffee funnel. Darn! forgot to turn on the water heater: no shower for a couple of hours. Guess I'll go outside and clean off the exterior: a few smashed bugs, some spider webs, clean the windows. I work in a desultory way: it's hot and humid. I hate the feeling of sweating.
I take a break with a cold drink and watch my various neighbours packing up and heading out. The group from along the way - the ones with the chocolat poodle - pull out. Hope they don't forget the dog. They all seem happy; laughing and joking while I feel melancholy and isolated. There's a Blue Jay who hangs out around my site and he is much in evidense this weekend. I wish I had remembered to bring him some sunflower seeds as a going away present. I watch him about his birdy business hopping here and there: flitting from fence to shrub to pine tree and back again. I wonder where his Missus is.
Once the water has heated up, I have my last shower, wash the dishes - such as they are. (My Lazy Lady pattern is white on white by Styrofoam.) And wipe down the hard surfaces inside. I guess it's time to tackle the job I've been dreading. Dumping the waste tanks.
Before we go any further I must give you a bit of background. There are two waste tanks, one for grey water from the sinks and shower and black water from the toilet. Rumour has it that the grey water stinks worse than the black. Go figure. Each tank has its own outlet and so dumping actually involves two dumps, one for each. And since the dumping is powered by gravity, the fittings are all on the bottom of the tanks, ie on the underside of the RV. Each tank has a large round fitting for the sewer hose and a metal handle to operate the dump valve which actually opens the tank.
The sewer hose is a fat plastic tube about 8' long and 3" in diameter with a "slinky" type spring inside. At rest, it contracts to about two feet. One end locks securely to the tank fitting but the other end has no fitting and it seems that one just stuffs it down the sewer pipe which is about 5" in diameter. The hose is quite "springy" and when I let go of it, it immediately springs back to its two feet of length. Has a mental image begun to form? Yeah, me too.
The second thing you need to know is that I have Rheumatoid Arthritis and I have good days and bad days. To-day happens to be a BAD day. I know it's going to be difficult getting down on my hands and knees to do this and that getting up is going to be worse. The ground is wet and mooshy not to mention slippery. I'm hoping I can accomplish it all from a bent over position.
As part of preparation to dump, I take a peek at the sewer pipe. About 6" down I can see water, well... liquid. Hmmmm. Don't think I want to dump down THIS pipe. I've been told the tank contents come out with a certain amount of force. Let's take a hike over to the new site and see what's up over there.
I hike over to "H19". The sewer pipe at the new site has a concrete brick covering the opening, which makes sense and when I lift it off and peek down, all I can see is darkness, which is a good thing. Back to the old site. Move the van. Fire up Lazy Lady (she starts like the trooper she is). I wriggle my way out past the hydro pole with no loss of paint or Lazy Lady body parts and motor over to H19. Zip, zip we're in. No problem. Real glad I've moved.However, parked where I think is best in the long term is a tad too far from the sewer so I pull forward 'till the RV tank outlets are opposite the sewer pipe. So far so good.
Next thing is to remove the black tank cover which is held on by two flanges. Unfortunately Mr. Muscles torqued it on last time and loosening it is going to require maximum leverage. Stooping isn't cutting it. But aha! I have a little Rubbermaid step I use instead of the fold away step and I bring it around to sit on. (Getting down to this step and more importantly getting up from it will be somewhat easier than from the ground, not to mention dryer.)
Keep in mind that as time goes by, it's getting hotter and humider and my moderately long hair is sticking to my neck and face while sweat is trickling down my back. Ugh.
The step is not a good idea. In fact it's worse, if possible, than from a simple bent over position. So I accept the inevitable and roll off and from a supine position and with much vocalizing, finally get the damn thing off. Now why anyone would crank the darn thing on so tight I can't imagine. It's not holding back the crap (literally). That't the valve's job. All this thing does is keep critters and general crud from getting into the pipe and gumming things up.
I roll up into a sitting position and retrieve the slinky hose from its home and lock it on to the tank outlet. I crab walk on my butt to the sewer pipe and stuff the other end down about a foot and try to balance the concrete brick on the hose to hold it in place. Not working. Best I can do is lean it against the hose. The RV is too far away to open the valve and hold the hose in the sewer pipe at the same time. This brick is all that's standing between me and a Robin Williams moment.
I have learned since that there are 90 degree gizmos that you can get at any camping supply shop which secure the hose in the sewer pipe with a friction fitting but I don't have one of those and it's a holiday so no place is open and I didn't know about them at the time anyway.
Crab walk back to the RV, grab the valve handle and PULL. No movement. Pullll harder, really putting my weight into it (I knew all those cinammon rolls would pay off). The valve lets go and I gouge about an ounce of flesh from the back of my arm on the corner of a piece of sheetmetal on the bottom edge of the RV. The handle moves back about 6 or 7 inches and I can hear liquid rushing out the slinky hose. I sit mezmerized by the thought of 30 gallons of crap gushing past my feet and suddenly it occurs to me. If the hose pops out, that stuff is going to be all over the ground: the ground I'm sitting on. But I'm frozen like a deer caught in the headlights... with blood dripping onto the ground.
Pretty quickly, the draining comes to a stop. The hose and brick have held. I close the valve. Time to get up. Oh yeah. Have you ever seen a cow get up from a lying down position? Butt first, right? Then you get the picture, only in slow motion and with a moderate amount of cussing.
I go inside but wait, the step is back by the sewer pipe. Back around the RV, get the step, back to the door, climb in, go into the bathroom, wash my arm, apply a row of bandaids (the only first aid supply I have here), open the commode valve and peer down. No black pyramid of death. So I divert just a few gallons of water down the shute. Just enough to rinse the hose.
As an aside, there are folks who spend a lot of time and money getting their black tank clean. Special power hosing, tornados of force, maximum flush. It's a BLACK tank for crying in a bucket. It's designed to collect poop and pee. After a day's use, it ain't gonna be clean any more.
My arm is stinging like a son of a gun. I have visions of Lock Jaw. And a slow lingering death by starvation. When was my last Tetanus shot? Decades ago. Or what about flesh eating bacteria? I'm doomed. Oh well, que sera, sera. Back to dumping the tanks.
(TO BE CONTINUED
The day begins with blue sky and warm. Now remember, Grangeways is a swamp. What happens when you heat a swamp? You get a sauna.
By the time Ruby and I get back to Lady, around 8:00, I am dripping. Great day to be running around, packing and crawling around dumping the waste tanks - for the first time ever.
8:30 - the Wild Child begins his shift.
To-day is a bit sad. This is my last time in Lady for the year. This may be the first real winter for her.
I have breakfast including coffee from the crappy coffee funnel. Darn! forgot to turn on the water heater: no shower for a couple of hours. Guess I'll go outside and clean off the exterior: a few smashed bugs, some spider webs, clean the windows. I work in a desultory way: it's hot and humid. I hate the feeling of sweating.
I take a break with a cold drink and watch my various neighbours packing up and heading out. The group from along the way - the ones with the chocolat poodle - pull out. Hope they don't forget the dog. They all seem happy; laughing and joking while I feel melancholy and isolated. There's a Blue Jay who hangs out around my site and he is much in evidense this weekend. I wish I had remembered to bring him some sunflower seeds as a going away present. I watch him about his birdy business hopping here and there: flitting from fence to shrub to pine tree and back again. I wonder where his Missus is.
Once the water has heated up, I have my last shower, wash the dishes - such as they are. (My Lazy Lady pattern is white on white by Styrofoam.) And wipe down the hard surfaces inside. I guess it's time to tackle the job I've been dreading. Dumping the waste tanks.
Before we go any further I must give you a bit of background. There are two waste tanks, one for grey water from the sinks and shower and black water from the toilet. Rumour has it that the grey water stinks worse than the black. Go figure. Each tank has its own outlet and so dumping actually involves two dumps, one for each. And since the dumping is powered by gravity, the fittings are all on the bottom of the tanks, ie on the underside of the RV. Each tank has a large round fitting for the sewer hose and a metal handle to operate the dump valve which actually opens the tank.
The sewer hose is a fat plastic tube about 8' long and 3" in diameter with a "slinky" type spring inside. At rest, it contracts to about two feet. One end locks securely to the tank fitting but the other end has no fitting and it seems that one just stuffs it down the sewer pipe which is about 5" in diameter. The hose is quite "springy" and when I let go of it, it immediately springs back to its two feet of length. Has a mental image begun to form? Yeah, me too.
The second thing you need to know is that I have Rheumatoid Arthritis and I have good days and bad days. To-day happens to be a BAD day. I know it's going to be difficult getting down on my hands and knees to do this and that getting up is going to be worse. The ground is wet and mooshy not to mention slippery. I'm hoping I can accomplish it all from a bent over position.
As part of preparation to dump, I take a peek at the sewer pipe. About 6" down I can see water, well... liquid. Hmmmm. Don't think I want to dump down THIS pipe. I've been told the tank contents come out with a certain amount of force. Let's take a hike over to the new site and see what's up over there.
I hike over to "H19". The sewer pipe at the new site has a concrete brick covering the opening, which makes sense and when I lift it off and peek down, all I can see is darkness, which is a good thing. Back to the old site. Move the van. Fire up Lazy Lady (she starts like the trooper she is). I wriggle my way out past the hydro pole with no loss of paint or Lazy Lady body parts and motor over to H19. Zip, zip we're in. No problem. Real glad I've moved.However, parked where I think is best in the long term is a tad too far from the sewer so I pull forward 'till the RV tank outlets are opposite the sewer pipe. So far so good.
Next thing is to remove the black tank cover which is held on by two flanges. Unfortunately Mr. Muscles torqued it on last time and loosening it is going to require maximum leverage. Stooping isn't cutting it. But aha! I have a little Rubbermaid step I use instead of the fold away step and I bring it around to sit on. (Getting down to this step and more importantly getting up from it will be somewhat easier than from the ground, not to mention dryer.)
Keep in mind that as time goes by, it's getting hotter and humider and my moderately long hair is sticking to my neck and face while sweat is trickling down my back. Ugh.
The step is not a good idea. In fact it's worse, if possible, than from a simple bent over position. So I accept the inevitable and roll off and from a supine position and with much vocalizing, finally get the damn thing off. Now why anyone would crank the darn thing on so tight I can't imagine. It's not holding back the crap (literally). That't the valve's job. All this thing does is keep critters and general crud from getting into the pipe and gumming things up.
I roll up into a sitting position and retrieve the slinky hose from its home and lock it on to the tank outlet. I crab walk on my butt to the sewer pipe and stuff the other end down about a foot and try to balance the concrete brick on the hose to hold it in place. Not working. Best I can do is lean it against the hose. The RV is too far away to open the valve and hold the hose in the sewer pipe at the same time. This brick is all that's standing between me and a Robin Williams moment.
I have learned since that there are 90 degree gizmos that you can get at any camping supply shop which secure the hose in the sewer pipe with a friction fitting but I don't have one of those and it's a holiday so no place is open and I didn't know about them at the time anyway.
Crab walk back to the RV, grab the valve handle and PULL. No movement. Pullll harder, really putting my weight into it (I knew all those cinammon rolls would pay off). The valve lets go and I gouge about an ounce of flesh from the back of my arm on the corner of a piece of sheetmetal on the bottom edge of the RV. The handle moves back about 6 or 7 inches and I can hear liquid rushing out the slinky hose. I sit mezmerized by the thought of 30 gallons of crap gushing past my feet and suddenly it occurs to me. If the hose pops out, that stuff is going to be all over the ground: the ground I'm sitting on. But I'm frozen like a deer caught in the headlights... with blood dripping onto the ground.
Pretty quickly, the draining comes to a stop. The hose and brick have held. I close the valve. Time to get up. Oh yeah. Have you ever seen a cow get up from a lying down position? Butt first, right? Then you get the picture, only in slow motion and with a moderate amount of cussing.
I go inside but wait, the step is back by the sewer pipe. Back around the RV, get the step, back to the door, climb in, go into the bathroom, wash my arm, apply a row of bandaids (the only first aid supply I have here), open the commode valve and peer down. No black pyramid of death. So I divert just a few gallons of water down the shute. Just enough to rinse the hose.
As an aside, there are folks who spend a lot of time and money getting their black tank clean. Special power hosing, tornados of force, maximum flush. It's a BLACK tank for crying in a bucket. It's designed to collect poop and pee. After a day's use, it ain't gonna be clean any more.
My arm is stinging like a son of a gun. I have visions of Lock Jaw. And a slow lingering death by starvation. When was my last Tetanus shot? Decades ago. Or what about flesh eating bacteria? I'm doomed. Oh well, que sera, sera. Back to dumping the tanks.
(TO BE CONTINUED
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Wild Child
Sunday is totally eventless with the exception of the child from down the road.
Before we go any further I need to make a couple of things clear. I do not have any children. I do not see this as a tragedy. It is very likely that it is a good thing that I do not have children. I'm not a crazy lady who plots evil against children or who would ever harm a child but it's like turnips, I'd prefer my stew without. You may have your stew any way you like.
Any way, the people at the end of my road have a son, about five years old who has one of those ride-in electric cars. Now the roads at Grangeways are packed gravel and this electric car has hard tires. On top of this, the motor has something wrong with it causing it to go clunk, clunk, clunk about twice a second. Added together this results in a rather noisy passage.
Around 9:00, he trundles past my site. Around 9:10 back he comes. Next arrival around 9:20 and so on all day with brief respite for lunch and dinner. His last trip at 9:35 PM. It's pitch dark and has been for a while. Are his folks not too fond of him either? Hoping for Gypsies to carry him off?
The irritation is not merely the noise but its almost perfect regularity. After so many passages, you develop an internal clock of expectation for the next passage. When it doesn't come, you notice and then you notice when one minute later it does come. Sorta like Chinese water torture, drip drip pause drip.
The kid doesn't go anywhere else: not around the block, just up and down "my" street. He has a great future as a street car driver: back and forth, back and forth, all day long. Aarrrgh!
The access to my site is difficult being partially blocked by a hydro pole and I had already decided to move to another site down the road which had clear access. But now, I was looking for a site on a different loop. Not only to get away from the kid and his car but on one of my walks with Ruby, I noticed that the site next to the one available on my road looked like a toy store had exploded.
Unh, Unh, no thanks.
Fortunately, there's one on the next loop. We'll take care of that little chore tomorrow before we leave for the season.
Ginger
Before we go any further I need to make a couple of things clear. I do not have any children. I do not see this as a tragedy. It is very likely that it is a good thing that I do not have children. I'm not a crazy lady who plots evil against children or who would ever harm a child but it's like turnips, I'd prefer my stew without. You may have your stew any way you like.
Any way, the people at the end of my road have a son, about five years old who has one of those ride-in electric cars. Now the roads at Grangeways are packed gravel and this electric car has hard tires. On top of this, the motor has something wrong with it causing it to go clunk, clunk, clunk about twice a second. Added together this results in a rather noisy passage.
Around 9:00, he trundles past my site. Around 9:10 back he comes. Next arrival around 9:20 and so on all day with brief respite for lunch and dinner. His last trip at 9:35 PM. It's pitch dark and has been for a while. Are his folks not too fond of him either? Hoping for Gypsies to carry him off?
The irritation is not merely the noise but its almost perfect regularity. After so many passages, you develop an internal clock of expectation for the next passage. When it doesn't come, you notice and then you notice when one minute later it does come. Sorta like Chinese water torture, drip drip pause drip.
The kid doesn't go anywhere else: not around the block, just up and down "my" street. He has a great future as a street car driver: back and forth, back and forth, all day long. Aarrrgh!
The access to my site is difficult being partially blocked by a hydro pole and I had already decided to move to another site down the road which had clear access. But now, I was looking for a site on a different loop. Not only to get away from the kid and his car but on one of my walks with Ruby, I noticed that the site next to the one available on my road looked like a toy store had exploded.
Unh, Unh, no thanks.
Fortunately, there's one on the next loop. We'll take care of that little chore tomorrow before we leave for the season.
Ginger
Thanksgiving Sunday Morning
Sunday arrives chilly and leaden. Oh, goody!
Well, that's a bit petulent.
This is mid-September in the Great White North ya know... It's milder than normal and if it precipitates, I won't have to shovel it. But expectations are strange things that affect our perception of reality. No reality bending medications necessary.
But the weather bureau promised warm and sunny, I whine. Well, here's a mint; suck it up. Warm and sunny ain't on the menu this morning, Honey.
Ruby and I go for an only slightly soggy walk: the puddles are still gargantuan. I'm wearing sandals and no sox. My feet are wet and gritty and I can feel a blister coming on. I want a coffee. We meet a few mutts, uncountable Labs, a chocolat Poodle (more about whom later), some fuzzballs, (all dogs falling into the X-Poo category, I refer to thusly) and some people.
The people, like the pooches, come in a variety of sizes, shapes and coats but interestingly all one colour - white. Don't Asians, Blacks, Hispanics, Indians camp?
There's a lovely creek that meanders through the property: home to frogs and tadpoles and other critters that the kids love to catch and, I hope, release. I promise to take pictures next year.
It's been about a half hour and Ruby has checked all the p-mail I have patience for so we head home.
On the way, we pass the Chocolat Poodle. Her owners are camped in the spot across the road and she is staked out in this empty space with naught but a water dish to keep her company. She's frantic to play and Ruby and I spend a few minutes with her. Why do people get dogs when they don't enjoy their company? I hope she wasn't there all night...
Back at the ranch, after Ruby goes through her routine of screwing up her courage to jump into the rig - she will not step on that retractable step - I fire up the kettle and get out the single cup drip coffee cone I bought just before the weekend.
I have a question. Why, oh why, when there is a simple, elegant virtually unbreakable tool, do people feel it is necessary to mess with it? And by "mess with it", I mean make it fancier, electrically powered, computer controlled, automatic, multi-function, with wheels, flashing lights and a digital clock. Just about the only electrical appliance I have in my kitchen that doesn't have a digital clock is my hand mixer. And no, you can't have it.
I had a Melitta filter cone. You could put a 2-cup, 4-cup or 8-cup filter in it, rest it on a cup or carafe and after adding coffee and hot water, produce a decent cup or pot of coffee. I now make my coffee with a French press pot and thought to resurrect my Melitta filter cone for Lazy Lady but alas, it has disappeared into the black hole that resides in my basement. All righty then, no problem, twenty bucks or so and a trip to Wal*Mart should fix that problem.
You'd think.
Wal*Mart, Home Depot, Rona, Zellers, Giant Tiger, and various "super" grocery stores later, no Melitta or any other plain old filter cone with or without the carafe. Myriads of electric coffee makers that will make coffee, lattes, cappucino, espresso - even hot chocolat - for goodness sake. Most have bells, timers, clocks, run on A/C current and occupy upwards of one square foot of counter space that I can't spare. One Wal*Mart I was in, the clerk I spoke to didn't even know what a non-electric drip coffee maker was. Sheeesh.
Am I beginning to sound a tad like Andy Rooney? No? OK, I'll continue.
To continue, I finally found what I looked like a simple, one mug, non-electric drip filter cone in the camping section of Canadian Tire (Crappy Tire to the locals). Yay. It even had a permanent metal mesh filter. This is what I will use this morning. After the Herculean task of ripping off the blister pack entombing the cone, I ladle some coffee into it, place it on my coffee mug and pour the hot water in.
I wait. And wait.
Nothing's happening except about one drop of coffee drips into the mug every 10 seconds or so. I'm not going to live long enough to enjoy this cup of coffee! It'll probably evaporate faster than it drips through.
When all else fails, read the instructions. Who'd'a guessed you'd need instructions for a filter cone holder. Well, the "improvers" have been at this simple device making it "better". This is a two-part contraption. The bottom part comprises a small coffee well for the grounds, the bottom of which is the mesh filter. The top part is the "funnel" which twists onto the bottom part. It has several small holes which apparently allow a gradual flow of water onto the grounds below. These holes are so small that they got clogged with grounds with my first attempt. There is also a "chimney" running from bottom to top of the funnel part. Don't ask me what it does.
So, what to do with the slightly damp coffee in the cone? I dump it into a bowl. (So, I'm cheap. So what?) I wash the whole contraption. Try to empty the grounds from the bowl into the small coffee well and get it all over the counter, sink, filter holder and about half of it into the well. I clean up the mess. I've been told not to put grounds into the grey tank and so I do this with multiple paper towels. I'm never going to get all the grounds so I rinse them down the drain. (Don't tell the grey water cops on me.) I top the holder up with more coffee, twist the two parts together (more wet grounds ooze out), and with multiple appendages crossed, pour more hot water into the cone. It drips at a somewhat faster pace than the first attempt but this isn't going to work as a permanent solution. Hasn't anyone heard, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it!"
Anyway, about half an hour after returning, I'm sitting at the dinette table with a hot coffee. I'm going to have to get a second French press before next spring. I'm done screwing around with filter cones.
Ginger
Well, that's a bit petulent.
This is mid-September in the Great White North ya know... It's milder than normal and if it precipitates, I won't have to shovel it. But expectations are strange things that affect our perception of reality. No reality bending medications necessary.
But the weather bureau promised warm and sunny, I whine. Well, here's a mint; suck it up. Warm and sunny ain't on the menu this morning, Honey.
Ruby and I go for an only slightly soggy walk: the puddles are still gargantuan. I'm wearing sandals and no sox. My feet are wet and gritty and I can feel a blister coming on. I want a coffee. We meet a few mutts, uncountable Labs, a chocolat Poodle (more about whom later), some fuzzballs, (all dogs falling into the X-Poo category, I refer to thusly) and some people.
The people, like the pooches, come in a variety of sizes, shapes and coats but interestingly all one colour - white. Don't Asians, Blacks, Hispanics, Indians camp?
There's a lovely creek that meanders through the property: home to frogs and tadpoles and other critters that the kids love to catch and, I hope, release. I promise to take pictures next year.
It's been about a half hour and Ruby has checked all the p-mail I have patience for so we head home.
On the way, we pass the Chocolat Poodle. Her owners are camped in the spot across the road and she is staked out in this empty space with naught but a water dish to keep her company. She's frantic to play and Ruby and I spend a few minutes with her. Why do people get dogs when they don't enjoy their company? I hope she wasn't there all night...
Back at the ranch, after Ruby goes through her routine of screwing up her courage to jump into the rig - she will not step on that retractable step - I fire up the kettle and get out the single cup drip coffee cone I bought just before the weekend.
I have a question. Why, oh why, when there is a simple, elegant virtually unbreakable tool, do people feel it is necessary to mess with it? And by "mess with it", I mean make it fancier, electrically powered, computer controlled, automatic, multi-function, with wheels, flashing lights and a digital clock. Just about the only electrical appliance I have in my kitchen that doesn't have a digital clock is my hand mixer. And no, you can't have it.
I had a Melitta filter cone. You could put a 2-cup, 4-cup or 8-cup filter in it, rest it on a cup or carafe and after adding coffee and hot water, produce a decent cup or pot of coffee. I now make my coffee with a French press pot and thought to resurrect my Melitta filter cone for Lazy Lady but alas, it has disappeared into the black hole that resides in my basement. All righty then, no problem, twenty bucks or so and a trip to Wal*Mart should fix that problem.
You'd think.
Wal*Mart, Home Depot, Rona, Zellers, Giant Tiger, and various "super" grocery stores later, no Melitta or any other plain old filter cone with or without the carafe. Myriads of electric coffee makers that will make coffee, lattes, cappucino, espresso - even hot chocolat - for goodness sake. Most have bells, timers, clocks, run on A/C current and occupy upwards of one square foot of counter space that I can't spare. One Wal*Mart I was in, the clerk I spoke to didn't even know what a non-electric drip coffee maker was. Sheeesh.
Am I beginning to sound a tad like Andy Rooney? No? OK, I'll continue.
To continue, I finally found what I looked like a simple, one mug, non-electric drip filter cone in the camping section of Canadian Tire (Crappy Tire to the locals). Yay. It even had a permanent metal mesh filter. This is what I will use this morning. After the Herculean task of ripping off the blister pack entombing the cone, I ladle some coffee into it, place it on my coffee mug and pour the hot water in.
I wait. And wait.
Nothing's happening except about one drop of coffee drips into the mug every 10 seconds or so. I'm not going to live long enough to enjoy this cup of coffee! It'll probably evaporate faster than it drips through.
When all else fails, read the instructions. Who'd'a guessed you'd need instructions for a filter cone holder. Well, the "improvers" have been at this simple device making it "better". This is a two-part contraption. The bottom part comprises a small coffee well for the grounds, the bottom of which is the mesh filter. The top part is the "funnel" which twists onto the bottom part. It has several small holes which apparently allow a gradual flow of water onto the grounds below. These holes are so small that they got clogged with grounds with my first attempt. There is also a "chimney" running from bottom to top of the funnel part. Don't ask me what it does.
So, what to do with the slightly damp coffee in the cone? I dump it into a bowl. (So, I'm cheap. So what?) I wash the whole contraption. Try to empty the grounds from the bowl into the small coffee well and get it all over the counter, sink, filter holder and about half of it into the well. I clean up the mess. I've been told not to put grounds into the grey tank and so I do this with multiple paper towels. I'm never going to get all the grounds so I rinse them down the drain. (Don't tell the grey water cops on me.) I top the holder up with more coffee, twist the two parts together (more wet grounds ooze out), and with multiple appendages crossed, pour more hot water into the cone. It drips at a somewhat faster pace than the first attempt but this isn't going to work as a permanent solution. Hasn't anyone heard, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it!"
Anyway, about half an hour after returning, I'm sitting at the dinette table with a hot coffee. I'm going to have to get a second French press before next spring. I'm done screwing around with filter cones.
Ginger
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Thanksgiving - Part Two
Comfy on the couch, in dry clothes and fuzzy sox, I sip wine and nibble on some very nice two year old Cheddar and vegetable crackers. The rain patters on the roof... nice. The narration of one of Kathy Reichs' "In Death" series books fills the silence: Ruby dozes on the couch beside me, her head in my lap. Ruby does this thing sometimes when she's relaxed. She breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth making her lips flutter. Sometimes, when she's really relaxed, she leaves the tip of her pink tongue sticking out Cute and goofy.
When I open my eyes, someone's turned out the lights. Shoot, it's getting dark early these days. We've had such summer-like weather, the short evenings seem unnatural. But wait, big oops, the fridge stuff is still in the van. I go to slip on my Birks but no go. Leather doesn't like getting wet and loves to shrink and stiffen up. Gotta get a pair of Crocs. May have to get new Birkenstocks too. Oh well, bare feet will have to do.
Back in Lazy Lady, I assess the potential casualties: four chicken breasts, a liter of milk, two apples, a package of smoked beef and two onions. Well, the apples are no brainers: I pop them into the vegetable bin in the fridge. The beef should be ok: it's still cool and it's "preserved", right?. Into the meat keeper it goes. The milk goes into the freezer for a fast chill. The chicken is destined for the skillet along with the onions. Chicken and onions, (with mushrooms and garlic if ya got 'em) is hard to beat. You can pile it on a crusty bun with mayo or serve it as the main dish meat with veg and/or noodles. It keeps for a few days in the fridge and reheats to perfection.
Now this world is filled with only two kinds of people. Those who love electrical storms and those who view them with fear and loathing. I'm one of the former. As a kid, we had a family cottage at a place called, appropriately, Thunder Beach. It's a small horse-shoe shaped bay on the southern part of Georgian Bay and some rip-snorters blow in off the main bay. I remember snuggling down under the down comforter in a big old cottage bed watching the light show through the window and listening to the angels roll pianos all over Heaven's floor.
Well, there's no down-filled comforters here but I get to enjoy a thunder storm that would do justice to Thunder Beach. And it goes on for hours. RVs are grounded through the electrical pedestal, aren't they? There is one ear-splitting CRACK of thunder that's a bit worrisome but all in all, a good time is had by all.
With full tummies, (Ruby got a good-sized bite of the second chicken and onion sandwich), we nod off to the disappearing rumblings that fade away to the east.
Ginger
When I open my eyes, someone's turned out the lights. Shoot, it's getting dark early these days. We've had such summer-like weather, the short evenings seem unnatural. But wait, big oops, the fridge stuff is still in the van. I go to slip on my Birks but no go. Leather doesn't like getting wet and loves to shrink and stiffen up. Gotta get a pair of Crocs. May have to get new Birkenstocks too. Oh well, bare feet will have to do.
Back in Lazy Lady, I assess the potential casualties: four chicken breasts, a liter of milk, two apples, a package of smoked beef and two onions. Well, the apples are no brainers: I pop them into the vegetable bin in the fridge. The beef should be ok: it's still cool and it's "preserved", right?. Into the meat keeper it goes. The milk goes into the freezer for a fast chill. The chicken is destined for the skillet along with the onions. Chicken and onions, (with mushrooms and garlic if ya got 'em) is hard to beat. You can pile it on a crusty bun with mayo or serve it as the main dish meat with veg and/or noodles. It keeps for a few days in the fridge and reheats to perfection.
Now this world is filled with only two kinds of people. Those who love electrical storms and those who view them with fear and loathing. I'm one of the former. As a kid, we had a family cottage at a place called, appropriately, Thunder Beach. It's a small horse-shoe shaped bay on the southern part of Georgian Bay and some rip-snorters blow in off the main bay. I remember snuggling down under the down comforter in a big old cottage bed watching the light show through the window and listening to the angels roll pianos all over Heaven's floor.
Well, there's no down-filled comforters here but I get to enjoy a thunder storm that would do justice to Thunder Beach. And it goes on for hours. RVs are grounded through the electrical pedestal, aren't they? There is one ear-splitting CRACK of thunder that's a bit worrisome but all in all, a good time is had by all.
With full tummies, (Ruby got a good-sized bite of the second chicken and onion sandwich), we nod off to the disappearing rumblings that fade away to the east.
Ginger
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
A Thanksgiving not to Remember - Part One
Thanksgiving 2007: here is the story of storms and mud and blood... and dashed expectations.
Perfect and unseasonable weather is forcast: sunny and warm with, maybe, showers late on the holiday Monday. Fantasmagorical! Now Thanksgiving is the traditional weekend to close up the summer place, including those with wheels.
And so, this was the last weekend to enjoy Lazy Lady and to get her all ready for her winter slumber. There would still be lots of time for walks and visits with the neighbours and to move Lady to a different site. (More about that in another post. It will involve dogs and short aggressive men and leashes.)
Now the previous weekend things really cooled off at night and Ruby (my retired racing greyhound) and I were glad to snuggle all night but, my goodness, she has a lot of pointy bits. So on Friday I purchased a little ceramic heater to take the chill off things. Originally, I was looking for an electric blanket but not at $80.00 on sale and besides, the little heater would do just fine.
We have a leisurely Saturday morning at home and the van loaded up by noon. Make quick stops for gas, groceries and some vino and we're on our way with the first spatters of rain on the windshield. Damn!
The rain sprinkled off and on for about 30 minutes then the heavens opened. Ever the optimist, I say heavy rain is a good thing; gets it over with fast. By the time I get out of the city, (ie away from civilisation), it's raining even harder and it is DARK. Headlights on full and wipers going at top speed, I dare not move along at more than about 30 kliks. Underpasses are crowded with huddled motorcyclists waiting out the storm. And then it happens... the wipers make their last
downstroke. Repeated twisting of the control has no effect.I'm on a minor country road with narrow shoulders. Haven't seen a gas station, country store or a wide spot for a while.
I decide, for good or ill, to continue: under normal conditions I'm only about 15 minutes away from the RV site. I make the second last turn, which is onto Herald Road, without event. I'm now 6 miles from the last turn which is half a mile from the entrance. No letup in the rain or darkness. I'm beginning to feel like I'm in a murky water world all by myself: no sound but the pounding rain, very little visible beyond the smeary windows. I know I'm doing something dangerous or at least really dumb but for some reason I continue.
Here we go, watching for the sign and watching the odometer. Six miles is about 9 kilometres and so, after 8 kliks, I start looking as carefully as I can - consistent with staying out of the ditch. Eight kliks, nine kliks, 10 kliks - no sign - 11 kliks. Damn, how did I miss it? How much further until I can find a safe place to turn around? Finally, after another 5 kliks, a side road with the stub end of a long forgotten driveway to nowhere and I make a three point turn and get back to Herald Road.
I've been keeping track of distances and so I go back to where the last turnoff before Grangeways should be and there's a country store on the other side of the road. Great. I can't be more than a few kliks away so I cross the road and park beside this typical Ontario country store. You know the kind where you can buy everything from a loaf of bread to replacement springs for your tractor. Inside, the place is stuffed with well, stuff, is dark and smells
powdery - not unpleasant. I approach the counter where a young man sits hunched over looking at a tiny TV sitting opposite him on a second chair. He looks up with that vacant
blank stare and I hear the melody of Dueling Banjos. Taking a deep breath, I ask him if he could direct me to Grangeways Trailer Park. Blank stare, never heard of the place.
It can't be more than 4 or 5 kilometres from here and he's never even heard of the place. I tell him that it's on the 3rd Concession Road and he tips his head toward the intersection where we presently are and informs me that this is it. Well, I know it isn't because the turnoff for Grangeways is at the 3rd Concession Road and this isn't it. I'm not sure in which direction it is but this it ain't.
"Thanks, friend." and I'm otta there. Outside, back in the deluge, people are building boats in their backyards and asking "what's a cubit?" An older couple pull up in a late model SUV and the Mr. gets out. "Excuse me, Sir, are you from around here?" "Why yes", the reply. So figuring this guy has better than a room temp IQ I ask him where Grangeways is and he has no better clue than banjo boy.Well, there's nothing for it but to head back to the last place where I knew where I was and start over... or go home.
About 3 kliks along the way back to Hwy 48 I see the Grangeways sign and make the turn. Less than a kilometre to go. Can't miss the entrance, a great loang wooden rail fence marks the spot and I turn in. The rain stops. Natch.
I pull up to the gate and swipe my card. Of course it doesn't work. I press the intercom button which for some strange reason does work and they open the gate from inside. In I go, across the bridge and along to my site. There's Lazy Lady waiting for me... in the middle of
what looks like nothing so much as a rice paddy. Out I get and slog around to the hatch to let Ruby out. Unh, unh, she ain't getting out. Maybe I like slogging around in water almost up to my ankles but not her.
I bodily wrestle her out of the van, (How is it dogs have this power to increase their weight at will? A dog which normally wieghs about 65 pounds, when she doesn't want to go into the bath or into the rice paddy or whatever can instantly double her weight.) and squelch up to the door and in we go.
I give Ruby a big "Rollup" slice as a reward and go back to the van to get the most important bag: the one with the wine!
This is the end of the beginning of Day One of Thanksgiving 2007. A weekend that shall live on the wall of shame of bad weekends.
Ginger
Perfect and unseasonable weather is forcast: sunny and warm with, maybe, showers late on the holiday Monday. Fantasmagorical! Now Thanksgiving is the traditional weekend to close up the summer place, including those with wheels.
And so, this was the last weekend to enjoy Lazy Lady and to get her all ready for her winter slumber. There would still be lots of time for walks and visits with the neighbours and to move Lady to a different site. (More about that in another post. It will involve dogs and short aggressive men and leashes.)
Now the previous weekend things really cooled off at night and Ruby (my retired racing greyhound) and I were glad to snuggle all night but, my goodness, she has a lot of pointy bits. So on Friday I purchased a little ceramic heater to take the chill off things. Originally, I was looking for an electric blanket but not at $80.00 on sale and besides, the little heater would do just fine.
We have a leisurely Saturday morning at home and the van loaded up by noon. Make quick stops for gas, groceries and some vino and we're on our way with the first spatters of rain on the windshield. Damn!
The rain sprinkled off and on for about 30 minutes then the heavens opened. Ever the optimist, I say heavy rain is a good thing; gets it over with fast. By the time I get out of the city, (ie away from civilisation), it's raining even harder and it is DARK. Headlights on full and wipers going at top speed, I dare not move along at more than about 30 kliks. Underpasses are crowded with huddled motorcyclists waiting out the storm. And then it happens... the wipers make their last
downstroke. Repeated twisting of the control has no effect.I'm on a minor country road with narrow shoulders. Haven't seen a gas station, country store or a wide spot for a while.
I decide, for good or ill, to continue: under normal conditions I'm only about 15 minutes away from the RV site. I make the second last turn, which is onto Herald Road, without event. I'm now 6 miles from the last turn which is half a mile from the entrance. No letup in the rain or darkness. I'm beginning to feel like I'm in a murky water world all by myself: no sound but the pounding rain, very little visible beyond the smeary windows. I know I'm doing something dangerous or at least really dumb but for some reason I continue.
Here we go, watching for the sign and watching the odometer. Six miles is about 9 kilometres and so, after 8 kliks, I start looking as carefully as I can - consistent with staying out of the ditch. Eight kliks, nine kliks, 10 kliks - no sign - 11 kliks. Damn, how did I miss it? How much further until I can find a safe place to turn around? Finally, after another 5 kliks, a side road with the stub end of a long forgotten driveway to nowhere and I make a three point turn and get back to Herald Road.
I've been keeping track of distances and so I go back to where the last turnoff before Grangeways should be and there's a country store on the other side of the road. Great. I can't be more than a few kliks away so I cross the road and park beside this typical Ontario country store. You know the kind where you can buy everything from a loaf of bread to replacement springs for your tractor. Inside, the place is stuffed with well, stuff, is dark and smells
powdery - not unpleasant. I approach the counter where a young man sits hunched over looking at a tiny TV sitting opposite him on a second chair. He looks up with that vacant
blank stare and I hear the melody of Dueling Banjos. Taking a deep breath, I ask him if he could direct me to Grangeways Trailer Park. Blank stare, never heard of the place.
It can't be more than 4 or 5 kilometres from here and he's never even heard of the place. I tell him that it's on the 3rd Concession Road and he tips his head toward the intersection where we presently are and informs me that this is it. Well, I know it isn't because the turnoff for Grangeways is at the 3rd Concession Road and this isn't it. I'm not sure in which direction it is but this it ain't.
"Thanks, friend." and I'm otta there. Outside, back in the deluge, people are building boats in their backyards and asking "what's a cubit?" An older couple pull up in a late model SUV and the Mr. gets out. "Excuse me, Sir, are you from around here?" "Why yes", the reply. So figuring this guy has better than a room temp IQ I ask him where Grangeways is and he has no better clue than banjo boy.Well, there's nothing for it but to head back to the last place where I knew where I was and start over... or go home.
About 3 kliks along the way back to Hwy 48 I see the Grangeways sign and make the turn. Less than a kilometre to go. Can't miss the entrance, a great loang wooden rail fence marks the spot and I turn in. The rain stops. Natch.
I pull up to the gate and swipe my card. Of course it doesn't work. I press the intercom button which for some strange reason does work and they open the gate from inside. In I go, across the bridge and along to my site. There's Lazy Lady waiting for me... in the middle of
what looks like nothing so much as a rice paddy. Out I get and slog around to the hatch to let Ruby out. Unh, unh, she ain't getting out. Maybe I like slogging around in water almost up to my ankles but not her.
I bodily wrestle her out of the van, (How is it dogs have this power to increase their weight at will? A dog which normally wieghs about 65 pounds, when she doesn't want to go into the bath or into the rice paddy or whatever can instantly double her weight.) and squelch up to the door and in we go.
I give Ruby a big "Rollup" slice as a reward and go back to the van to get the most important bag: the one with the wine!
This is the end of the beginning of Day One of Thanksgiving 2007. A weekend that shall live on the wall of shame of bad weekends.
Ginger
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Paying it Forward
How many of you have seen the film, "Pay it Forward", starring Kevin Spacey, Helen Hunt and Haley Joel Osment? If you haven't, you're missing something special. No special effects, no towering sound track but skilled actors doing a great job with a touching story. And an interesting philosophy which contrary to popular belief did not begin with the film: the philosophy of paying it forward.
We all know about paying it back, getting even. We've all heard "payback's a bitch" and "don't get mad, get even". But do we ever "get even"? And when/if you finally feel that you've gotten "even", does the other guy think it's "even"? Naw, not even close.
The concept of pay it forward presented in the film struck me with its simplicity and power: the power that anyone could wield to make the world a better place. In my self-absorbed way, since I had never heard of it before, I assumed it was an invention of the author, (the film is based on the novel of the same name by Catherine Ryan Hyde), but not so.
Science fiction author Robert A. Heinlein used the phrase in Between Planets, a book published in 1951, almost 50 years before Ryan Hyde's novel. Heinlein both preached and practiced this philosophy; now the Heinlein Society, a humanitarian organization founded in his name, does so. (Wikipedia)
The idea of "paying it forward", but without the pyramid scheme-like exponential growth, appears already in a letter from Benjamin Franklin to Benjamin Webb, dated April 22, 1784. (Wikipedia)
Here are a few links for you if you would like to read more.
Foundation
Wikipedia
Blog
Why am I writing about this and why now, you ask. Well, since you asked... If you read about Sir Frank here, my knight who was so helpful in my getting my Lazy Lady, you may remember that in my call for help I made it clear that I was more than happy to compensate anyone who helped. When I remended him that I was waiting for a "statement" from him, he merely said "Pay It Forward".
Wouldn't it be a great thing if each person who reads this were to pay it forward to three people in the next few months with the reminder to keep it going.
Ginger
We all know about paying it back, getting even. We've all heard "payback's a bitch" and "don't get mad, get even". But do we ever "get even"? And when/if you finally feel that you've gotten "even", does the other guy think it's "even"? Naw, not even close.
The concept of pay it forward presented in the film struck me with its simplicity and power: the power that anyone could wield to make the world a better place. In my self-absorbed way, since I had never heard of it before, I assumed it was an invention of the author, (the film is based on the novel of the same name by Catherine Ryan Hyde), but not so.
Science fiction author Robert A. Heinlein used the phrase in Between Planets, a book published in 1951, almost 50 years before Ryan Hyde's novel. Heinlein both preached and practiced this philosophy; now the Heinlein Society, a humanitarian organization founded in his name, does so. (Wikipedia)
The idea of "paying it forward", but without the pyramid scheme-like exponential growth, appears already in a letter from Benjamin Franklin to Benjamin Webb, dated April 22, 1784. (Wikipedia)
Here are a few links for you if you would like to read more.
Foundation
Wikipedia
Blog
Why am I writing about this and why now, you ask. Well, since you asked... If you read about Sir Frank here, my knight who was so helpful in my getting my Lazy Lady, you may remember that in my call for help I made it clear that I was more than happy to compensate anyone who helped. When I remended him that I was waiting for a "statement" from him, he merely said "Pay It Forward".
Wouldn't it be a great thing if each person who reads this were to pay it forward to three people in the next few months with the reminder to keep it going.
Ginger
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
The Summer Residence
The "Summer Residence" as I sometimes refer to it is home, well sort of. It's parked on the street in front of my house. Now I live in a typical middle-class suburb of a large city and the neighbours don't take kindly to vehicles up on blocks, old fridges in the back yard or RVs parked at the curb. I know the clock is ticking.
I kinda walk along the edge of respectability around here. Sometimes the lawn gets a bit long before it gets trimmed, sometimes the trash can sits out an extra day after being emptied, I admit that there are a *lot* of Dandelions in my lawn and in the winter and if the van can get over the snow in the driveway without going sideways, the driveway doesn't get shovelled.
I know, I know, I should burn in Hell for being such a slob but I figure the place is there for my ease and comfort not to provide me with a second, unpaid career or as a pretty setting for my next-door neighbour. So I know I'm on a pretty short leash regarding the RV out front.
My friend who was supposed to caravan with me to the seasonal site where Lazy Lady is going to life for at least the next 12 months, had his work schedule changed at the last minute, (How very inconvenient of his employer!) which means that I have no way of getting Lazy Lady to her site. Well, technically, I could get her there but then there would be no way of getting me back. I felt rather strongly about that, and so did my employer. So she sits out front aaaallllll week.
And I avoid eye contact with my neighbours.
I'm also a bit worried about the fridge. It's full of contraband groceries smuggled across the border. Shhh don't tell anyone but there's an RV in Canada full of American eggs, cheese (two kinds: cheddar and Swiss), ham and a peach! I need to keep it running. So how level does a fridge have to be, not to self-destruct? The road kinda slopes a bit at the curb and the side-to-side bubble in the cab isn't perfectly centred. It's a bit off. Now I've heard "half a bubble" is OK. Well is "bubble" a fixed quantity (distance/measurement)? How do I know when I've strayed past half-a-bubble into the death to fridges three quarters of a bubble? My level doesn't even have markings on it so I don't even know how much of my bubble is outside the OK zone. Don't laugh, this is complicated not to mention worrisome.
So, anyway, I'm worried about the fridge and also, will it run out of propane? How much propane will it use in a week? If it runs out of propane, will it automatically switch over to DC? If so, wIll the batteries last for the day until the sun comes up and the solar panels can re-charge the batteries? Why don't I just unload the fridge and turn the darned thing off? I dunno. Stupid I guess. All this over some damn-yankee eggs, cheese (two kinds: cheddar and Swiss), ham and a peach!
Well, good news, I'm sure you've been on the edge of your seat. The fridge and the eggs, cheese (two kinds: cheddar and Swiss), ham and a peach! survived.
Next Saturday my friend, his thirteen year old son and I set out for the wilds of East Gwillenbury. Here follows the pictorial record of our expedition.
Entering Grangeways
Pulling up to the Office
Grangeways Main Building
Lazy Lady Parked
Ahhh, that feels good.
Ginger
Part Three - Getting Back
The original plan was to head back on Tuesday and take my time until Friday: maybe detouring over to Shenandoah in VA and up through PA and into the Finger Lakes region of NY and then directly west and home. But then the "best laid plans" rule kicked in and I didn't hit the road until 11:30 on Wednesday. This change in plans necessitated some freeway driving and no Shenandoah. Maybe next time.
So I boogied up I81 to I68/70 and across to Route 219. Rte 219, from the map, looked like a really interesting ride. Getting there, I exited from I70 a bit too soon due to my misreading the map. (Are they using smaller fonts lately?) And ended up at some small town (Frostburg?)Mental Health Facility getting directions. They certainly saved my mental health! I was close, but close counts only with horse-shoes and grenades.
Rte 219 is a great road - very pretty - mostly through forest. Lots of ups and downs (nothing more than a 6% grade) and lotsa curvey bits. It goes through small towns so you're not going to make great time but then, that's what the freeways are for. There was construction at one point necessitating a detour. NOTE: if you're heading north, when you come to the abandoned RR station with the huge flashing sign saying TURN LEFT, *don't*. Turn right as the small, low down "Rte 219 North" road sign says. Otherwise, you'll be heading south and you'll have to go back up the hill (they call them mountains) and down again. This is the voice of experience. On my first time up the hill I passed a couple of fellows under an overpass resting by their bikes. They gave the LD a good looking over. The second time, they waved like old friends.
There are lots of longish 6% grades on this route and numerous truck escape thingies. There was a mandatory "stop" for trucks at the beginning of one of the downslopes. But none of these seemed all that threatening. As for the LD, I just disengaged the OD and let the engine keep the speed down to about 50-55 going down. (Used the same speed going up.) Climbing was no problem either with no overheating or problems. Made it up all the hills in third gear.
There aren't a lot of services on 219 so watch your fuel. It's a quiet route with little commercial traffic and a long stretch of it has been designated the "Flight 93 Memorial" which prohibits vehicles with advertising panels. So, essentially, no trucks. I would estimate a bit less than half of the way from MD state line to Buffalo on Rte 219 is four-lane divided with a good surface except for about 10 miles right at the NY border which was horrible. Really, really tooth rattleing bad.
On Wednesday I drove until 7:30 which was much later than I planned or wanted to do but I was a bit intimidated about looking for a Walmart and didn't see any campgrounds and of course, no truck stops. Just as the sun was disappearing behind the hills and true panic set in, I saw a billboard for a McDonalds at the Wal*Mart Plaza just off 219 in Du Bois. (That's pronounced "doo-boiss" not as this Canuck would as "doo-bwa".) Halleleujah! And it was easy to see with its mile high sign. The Wal*Mart was great, no problem parking there, lots of space. It wasn't a super centre but it had a good assortment of drygoods plus some dairy and of course sodas. I purchased a $3.00 compass - one of those floating ball types. Worked perfectly. I covered about 350 miles on day one. But I didn't find the LD tiring to drive. There was no fighting the wheel or any white knuckles.
There was the advertised McDonalds across the road and another chain restaurant, Casey's or Kelsey's or some such. The location was quiet, except for the Wal*Mart tractor whose driver kept his engine idling all night. I intended to relax for a bit and then wander over to the McD's for a packet of fries but the thrumming of the WM diesel was kinda soothing and I nodded off.
Next morning I was off to the "Subs and Six-packs" to get some Rolling Rock for my dog-sitter and to gas up. I'm not pushing it since I covered so much distance yesterday so was on the road around 10:30 with a big mug of coffee and some cheese and crackers to nibble on. What a life! (I'm easily amused.) I got myself turned around a bit - hafta get a GPS before I go on the road on a regular basis - but found my way back to 219 and continued north.
Before we go on further, I'd like to comment on the LD handling. There was a discussion, somewhere else, about the relative merits of trailering vs motorhoming vis a vis road stability, interior noise and other issues. I was a bit nervous about my decision based on the numerous opinions that motorhomes get pushed around a lot by the big rigs. And I know that my Astro van gets pushed around. How much worse was the 26.5' LD going to be? May I tell you than I could barely feel those rigs going by? I could occasionally feel a slight nudge when they were overtaking but never when oncoming. I'm delighted with this. As for noise, well the jury is still out since I don't have a lot of rattley stuff onboard - styrofoam plates are very quiet. The stove cover was noisy so I laid a folded towel under the cover and that ended the stove rattles.
Rte 219 leads directly into I90/190 around Buffalo and Niagara Falls, which I followed up to Lewiston where I was to cross the border. This is only Thursday and according to the US Customs web site they want 72 hours written notice before exporting a vehicle and this was only 48 hours. I really wasn't "due" at the border until the next day, Friday, but I thought, what the Hell, maybe somebody got super efficient and my paperwork would be ready early. Silly me.
I found my way to room 135 at the Customs warehouse and met the single most unpleasant, tight-assed, woman I have ever had the mis-fortune to encounter. You couldn't pull a greased pin outta her b**t with pliers. I hate to say this about my own gender, but women can be the worst nitpickers and take the most pleasure in it. Here is a gal with some authority and likes it a whole lot too much. And now, they've gone and given her a G U N.
Not only was I not getting that rig across *her* border on Thursday but it wasn't even going to happen on Friday since for whatever reason, my fax didn't get to her until Wednesday. She was determined that I had to come back on Monday. When I explained that I had faxed the required 72 hours ahead of time and that the 72 hours were up on Friday she merely said she wasn't going to argue with me and then proceded to get on with her other administrivia. Well, she was the one with the gun so what was I supposed to do? Fortunately her superior officer came in asking what was going on. (Had he been eavesdropping?) I explained the situation, mentioning again that I had faxed on Tuesday and had the receipt to prove it, thank goodness. He took my receipt and exclaimed that of course the vehicle should be released on Friday and wrote on the slip that my rig was to be cleared at 8:00 AM Friday. YES!!!
Officer Tight Ass had steam pouring out her ears by now.
All I had to do now was to cool my heels for the night and report back the next morning. I wasn't getting home early but I wasn't stuck here for an extra three days. (Camping is expensive around Niagara Falls.) So I found a KOA with full hookups and free WIFI for $38.00 and settled in for the night. I was really looking forward to the next day and my meeting with Officer T A.
The KOA was very pleasant with grass and trees and nice level packed gravel parking pads. There was reasonable space between sites and the area was quiet. Electrical power was sufficient - 30 amp and the WIFI signal was strong.)
Next day I got my export stamp. I greeted her pleasantly; she ignored me. I thanked her and she sent me off with her opinion that if it were up to her, I'd have to wait 'till Monday. Since I had the form I needed, I replied that I was pleased that it wasn't up to her and left.
Only one more hurdle, Canada Customs. Fortunately a walk in the park: some waiting, some form-filling-out, some waiting, some money changing hands, some waiting and I am home-free. All that remained was a quick stop at the first Timmies en route and 90 miles later... home. Ahhhhh!
Ginger
So I boogied up I81 to I68/70 and across to Route 219. Rte 219, from the map, looked like a really interesting ride. Getting there, I exited from I70 a bit too soon due to my misreading the map. (Are they using smaller fonts lately?) And ended up at some small town (Frostburg?)Mental Health Facility getting directions. They certainly saved my mental health! I was close, but close counts only with horse-shoes and grenades.
Rte 219 is a great road - very pretty - mostly through forest. Lots of ups and downs (nothing more than a 6% grade) and lotsa curvey bits. It goes through small towns so you're not going to make great time but then, that's what the freeways are for. There was construction at one point necessitating a detour. NOTE: if you're heading north, when you come to the abandoned RR station with the huge flashing sign saying TURN LEFT, *don't*. Turn right as the small, low down "Rte 219 North" road sign says.
There are lots of longish 6% grades on this route and numerous truck escape thingies. There was a mandatory "stop" for trucks at the beginning of one of the downslopes. But none of these seemed all that threatening. As for the LD, I just disengaged the OD and let the engine keep the speed down to about 50-55 going down. (Used the same speed going up.) Climbing was no problem either with no overheating or problems. Made it up all the hills in third gear.
There aren't a lot of services on 219 so watch your fuel. It's a quiet route with little commercial traffic and a long stretch of it has been designated the "Flight 93 Memorial" which prohibits vehicles with advertising panels. So, essentially, no trucks. I would estimate a bit less than half of the way from MD state line to Buffalo on Rte 219 is four-lane divided with a good surface except for about 10 miles right at the NY border which was horrible. Really, really tooth rattleing bad.
On Wednesday I drove until 7:30 which was much later than I planned or wanted to do but I was a bit intimidated about looking for a Walmart and didn't see any campgrounds and of course, no truck stops. Just as the sun was disappearing behind the hills and true panic set in, I saw a billboard for a McDonalds at the Wal*Mart Plaza just off 219 in Du Bois. (That's pronounced "doo-boiss" not as this Canuck would as "doo-bwa".) Halleleujah! And it was easy to see with its mile high sign. The Wal*Mart was great, no problem parking there, lots of space. It wasn't a super centre but it had a good assortment of drygoods plus some dairy and of course sodas. I purchased a $3.00 compass - one of those floating ball types. Worked perfectly. I covered about 350 miles on day one. But I didn't find the LD tiring to drive. There was no fighting the wheel or any white knuckles.
There was the advertised McDonalds across the road and another chain restaurant, Casey's or Kelsey's or some such. The location was quiet, except for the Wal*Mart tractor whose driver kept his engine idling all night. I intended to relax for a bit and then wander over to the McD's for a packet of fries but the thrumming of the WM diesel was kinda soothing and I nodded off.
Next morning I was off to the "Subs and Six-packs" to get some Rolling Rock for my dog-sitter and to gas up. I'm not pushing it since I covered so much distance yesterday so was on the road around 10:30 with a big mug of coffee and some cheese and crackers to nibble on. What a life! (I'm easily amused.) I got myself turned around a bit - hafta get a GPS before I go on the road on a regular basis - but found my way back to 219 and continued north.
Before we go on further, I'd like to comment on the LD handling. There was a discussion, somewhere else, about the relative merits of trailering vs motorhoming vis a vis road stability, interior noise and other issues. I was a bit nervous about my decision based on the numerous opinions that motorhomes get pushed around a lot by the big rigs. And I know that my Astro van gets pushed around. How much worse was the 26.5' LD going to be? May I tell you than I could barely feel those rigs going by? I could occasionally feel a slight nudge when they were overtaking but never when oncoming. I'm delighted with this. As for noise, well the jury is still out since I don't have a lot of rattley stuff onboard - styrofoam plates are very quiet. The stove cover was noisy so I laid a folded towel under the cover and that ended the stove rattles.
Rte 219 leads directly into I90/190 around Buffalo and Niagara Falls, which I followed up to Lewiston where I was to cross the border. This is only Thursday and according to the US Customs web site they want 72 hours written notice before exporting a vehicle and this was only 48 hours. I really wasn't "due" at the border until the next day, Friday, but I thought, what the Hell, maybe somebody got super efficient and my paperwork would be ready early. Silly me.
I found my way to room 135 at the Customs warehouse and met the single most unpleasant, tight-assed, woman I have ever had the mis-fortune to encounter. You couldn't pull a greased pin outta her b**t with pliers. I hate to say this about my own gender, but women can be the worst nitpickers and take the most pleasure in it. Here is a gal with some authority and likes it a whole lot too much. And now, they've gone and given her a G U N.
Not only was I not getting that rig across *her* border on Thursday but it wasn't even going to happen on Friday since for whatever reason, my fax didn't get to her until Wednesday. She was determined that I had to come back on Monday. When I explained that I had faxed the required 72 hours ahead of time and that the 72 hours were up on Friday she merely said she wasn't going to argue with me and then proceded to get on with her other administrivia. Well, she was the one with the gun so what was I supposed to do? Fortunately her superior officer came in asking what was going on. (Had he been eavesdropping?) I explained the situation, mentioning again that I had faxed on Tuesday and had the receipt to prove it, thank goodness. He took my receipt and exclaimed that of course the vehicle should be released on Friday and wrote on the slip that my rig was to be cleared at 8:00 AM Friday. YES!!!
Officer Tight Ass had steam pouring out her ears by now.
All I had to do now was to cool my heels for the night and report back the next morning. I wasn't getting home early but I wasn't stuck here for an extra three days. (Camping is expensive around Niagara Falls.) So I found a KOA with full hookups and free WIFI for $38.00 and settled in for the night. I was really looking forward to the next day and my meeting with Officer T A.
The KOA was very pleasant with grass and trees and nice level packed gravel parking pads. There was reasonable space between sites and the area was quiet. Electrical power was sufficient - 30 amp and the WIFI signal was strong.)
Next day I got my export stamp. I greeted her pleasantly; she ignored me. I thanked her and she sent me off with her opinion that if it were up to her, I'd have to wait 'till Monday. Since I had the form I needed, I replied that I was pleased that it wasn't up to her and left.
Only one more hurdle, Canada Customs. Fortunately a walk in the park: some waiting, some form-filling-out, some waiting, some money changing hands, some waiting and I am home-free. All that remained was a quick stop at the first Timmies en route and 90 miles later... home. Ahhhhh!
Ginger
Monday, October 1, 2007
Part Two - Being There
It's Monday morning in the Virginia countryside. There are green hills beyond hills beyond hills disappearing into haze. I pad around the garage peering out windows, sipping hot coffee and every once in a while looking back at the Lazy Daze sitting there: *my* Lazy Daze.
There are black cattle peppered over the surrounding fields. Moo-ing and munching and looking very pastoral. And there, close to the pond, one grass green cow. HUH?!
Later, I learned that the cows like to wade in the pond put there for drinking. The pond is rather deep and green pond plants float all over it's surface. If a cow has been submerged sufficiently, when it emerges it is covered with this green material. Sort of a life sized Chia Cow.
But back to the rig. She's an older gal - 15 years - and in remarkable shape. The inside is almost perfect. The carpeting in the living room and whatever was in the kitchen area have been replaced with hardwood parquet. I would prefer strips, but I'm content with the parquet. It needs a good waxing which it will get as soon as it's cooler.
The upholstery looks new. It's blue and brownish: acceptable although not to my taste. I will use throws in colours more to my liking. Eventually, I'll have the cushions re-upholstered but not any time soon. The cloth is repeated in the centre panels of the driver's and co-pilot's seats. The dinette cushions are navy and I want to replace these covers soon - too dark. And the fabric is velour which doesn't slide. Makes it really difficult for someone to slide into the inside position.
The bathroom is huge and the shower is almost as big as my shower at home. The shower has a big window which I will cover with some kind of translucent film. (bevelled glass or stained glass pattern ?) The floor is carpeted which must go ASAP.
The living room has two opposing couches. There is also, as mentioned above, a dinette. I think I will replace a couch or the dinette with a desk/workbench. Since there is very little counter space, it might be more workable to lose a couch. Opinions anyone?
We spent the morning going through the manuals and controls. And later at Wal*Mart shopping. I was a bit concerned when we got back with umpty-ump bags of stuff and groceries, but they disappeared into the cupboards barely touching the ample storage space. The freezer can best be described as "cozy". But the fridge is OK.
The heat was wearing me down. The A/C kept popping the circuit breaker so I was limited to a ceiling fan which just keeps the hot air moving. Better than nothing but not much. There are two additional small oscillating fans that are so loud they'd wake the dead. Pass on those.
Just enough time for a honey ham and Swiss cheese sandwich, (OK, OK, two sandwiches), a room temperature shower and bed.
Tuesday we go to the DMV to register the change in title. Gave the government computer conniptions over my lack of a valid Zip code. And paid $5.00 for a travel permit - no sales tax - goodie! Then off to fax all the required documentation to US Customs for the export of the rig. Long story short, this took about 4 hours. I won't bother you with the ugly details. It's a tale too horrible for your sensitive ears.
Tuesday AM Willie, (the seller), treats me to breakfast at a local diner she likes. I had scrambled eggs and biscuits so light they kept floating off the plate. It was heavenly. Willie had a biscuit with "gravy". The guy next to me at the bar had biscuits with "gravy". It was the worst looking stuff I've ever seen on a plate: glutinous off-white sauce with brown lumps in it.
Gravy should be a rich brown aromatic slightly runny sauce that fills the room with the scent of beef or pork or turkey or whatever. Nevertheless, these folks ate it with relish. But I found it difficult to watch.
Later that day I treated her to lunch at the restaurant of her choice. Back to the diner. And there on the menu, under sandwiches, I see BBQ. Not BBQ-ed something, just plain BBQ. Thinking back to a recent thread on an RVing newsgroup that went on and on about BBQ I decided to sample my first BBQ (not my first BBQ-ed something). I guess that makes me a qualified BBQ virgin. Sandwich comes with creamy coleslaw. Nirvana. Or maybe not.
The meat is what I'd call "pulled pork". It was mixed with what tasted like bottled hickory BBQ sauce and served on a grocery store hamburger bun. Oh well, there was still the coleslaw. Or maybe not.
Now hereabouts, creamy coleslaw is a simple pleasure: finely shredded cabbage, mayonnaise, salt and pepper: optionally with shredded carrot and or onion. This stuff had cabbage - I'm pretty sure - and some kind of dressing, largish black specks and an undertaste of something that had been sitting on the counter too long. Oh well. One meal out of two ain't bad.
Departure is scheduled for the morning, Wednesday. Tuesday night nothing that runs on gas um, runs. Both the gauge on the tank and the gauge inside read 1/2 and Willie wants to go to the RV dealer Wed morning. It can't be that both gauges are wrong. OK, if you say so.
We go to her regular shop and the owner checks the regulator and valves and opines that we're out of propane (no charge, nice folks). OK. Off we go to the propane place and buy 7.8 gallons: tank capacity (allowing for head room). Back home, drop off Willie, take some pictures, make some promises about writing etc and off I go. Heading back again. Oh boy!
Ginger
There are black cattle peppered over the surrounding fields. Moo-ing and munching and looking very pastoral. And there, close to the pond, one grass green cow. HUH?!
Later, I learned that the cows like to wade in the pond put there for drinking. The pond is rather deep and green pond plants float all over it's surface. If a cow has been submerged sufficiently, when it emerges it is covered with this green material. Sort of a life sized Chia Cow.
But back to the rig. She's an older gal - 15 years - and in remarkable shape. The inside is almost perfect. The carpeting in the living room and whatever was in the kitchen area have been replaced with hardwood parquet. I would prefer strips, but I'm content with the parquet. It needs a good waxing which it will get as soon as it's cooler.
The upholstery looks new. It's blue and brownish: acceptable although not to my taste. I will use throws in colours more to my liking. Eventually, I'll have the cushions re-upholstered but not any time soon. The cloth is repeated in the centre panels of the driver's and co-pilot's seats. The dinette cushions are navy and I want to replace these covers soon - too dark. And the fabric is velour which doesn't slide. Makes it really difficult for someone to slide into the inside position.
The bathroom is huge and the shower is almost as big as my shower at home. The shower has a big window which I will cover with some kind of translucent film. (bevelled glass or stained glass pattern ?) The floor is carpeted which must go ASAP.
The living room has two opposing couches. There is also, as mentioned above, a dinette. I think I will replace a couch or the dinette with a desk/workbench. Since there is very little counter space, it might be more workable to lose a couch. Opinions anyone?
We spent the morning going through the manuals and controls. And later at Wal*Mart shopping. I was a bit concerned when we got back with umpty-ump bags of stuff and groceries, but they disappeared into the cupboards barely touching the ample storage space. The freezer can best be described as "cozy". But the fridge is OK.
The heat was wearing me down. The A/C kept popping the circuit breaker so I was limited to a ceiling fan which just keeps the hot air moving. Better than nothing but not much. There are two additional small oscillating fans that are so loud they'd wake the dead. Pass on those.
Just enough time for a honey ham and Swiss cheese sandwich, (OK, OK, two sandwiches), a room temperature shower and bed.
Tuesday we go to the DMV to register the change in title. Gave the government computer conniptions over my lack of a valid Zip code. And paid $5.00 for a travel permit - no sales tax - goodie! Then off to fax all the required documentation to US Customs for the export of the rig. Long story short, this took about 4 hours. I won't bother you with the ugly details. It's a tale too horrible for your sensitive ears.
Tuesday AM Willie, (the seller), treats me to breakfast at a local diner she likes. I had scrambled eggs and biscuits so light they kept floating off the plate. It was heavenly. Willie had a biscuit with "gravy". The guy next to me at the bar had biscuits with "gravy". It was the worst looking stuff I've ever seen on a plate: glutinous off-white sauce with brown lumps in it.
Gravy should be a rich brown aromatic slightly runny sauce that fills the room with the scent of beef or pork or turkey or whatever. Nevertheless, these folks ate it with relish. But I found it difficult to watch.
Later that day I treated her to lunch at the restaurant of her choice. Back to the diner. And there on the menu, under sandwiches, I see BBQ. Not BBQ-ed something, just plain BBQ. Thinking back to a recent thread on an RVing newsgroup that went on and on about BBQ I decided to sample my first BBQ (not my first BBQ-ed something). I guess that makes me a qualified BBQ virgin. Sandwich comes with creamy coleslaw. Nirvana. Or maybe not.
The meat is what I'd call "pulled pork". It was mixed with what tasted like bottled hickory BBQ sauce and served on a grocery store hamburger bun. Oh well, there was still the coleslaw. Or maybe not.
Now hereabouts, creamy coleslaw is a simple pleasure: finely shredded cabbage, mayonnaise, salt and pepper: optionally with shredded carrot and or onion. This stuff had cabbage - I'm pretty sure - and some kind of dressing, largish black specks and an undertaste of something that had been sitting on the counter too long. Oh well. One meal out of two ain't bad.
Departure is scheduled for the morning, Wednesday. Tuesday night nothing that runs on gas um, runs. Both the gauge on the tank and the gauge inside read 1/2 and Willie wants to go to the RV dealer Wed morning. It can't be that both gauges are wrong. OK, if you say so.
We go to her regular shop and the owner checks the regulator and valves and opines that we're out of propane (no charge, nice folks). OK. Off we go to the propane place and buy 7.8 gallons: tank capacity (allowing for head room). Back home, drop off Willie, take some pictures, make some promises about writing etc and off I go. Heading back again. Oh boy!
Ginger
Friday, September 28, 2007
There and Back Again - Part One
This is a tale in three parts - kinda like a play.
1. Getting there
2. Being there
3. Getting back.
This is Part One: Getting There
There were three ways to get there (the northern part of Virginia where my LD resided), air, train and bus. Air was out right from the start since I don't have a passport. There appears to be no way to get from Toronto to Harrisonburg, (or anywhere near there), in less than two days by train. Hell, it's only about 650 miles! So that leaves the bus. Twenty-four hours, and $150.00 later I find myself in Charlottesburg VA.
What is it about bus travelers? We left the terminal at 9:30 PM. Most of these people have had all day, or at least all evening to eat dinner, call all their friends and use the bathroom but immediately upon leaving the terminal, out come the lunch bags, snack packages or cell phones, for some, a veritable smorsgabord of goodies accompanied by the squeaks, beeps, squawks and various tunes of their cell phones. And a steady stream of people for the tiny bathroom. Since I had the misfortune of sitting at the rear of the bus, I was subjected to repeated bumps and shoves as each squeezed past my seat.
I found myself seated beside a lady of proportions somewhat in excess of the width of her seat who had an MP3-playing cell phone and who sang along with her tunes when not responding to her phone's repeated bleatings of "Miss you have a text message." The previous occupant of my seat had folded the aisle arm rest down and for the life of me I could not figure out how to raise it. I spent the first leg of the trip in mortal danger of tumbling out of my seat onto the floor of the aisle. Welcome to bus Hell.
We stopped at Lewiston to cross the border (looooong slow lineup at Immigration then collect luggage and pass through Customs), Buffalo to change drivers, Syracuse for a snack, (at 3:00 AM for Goodness sake... who wants to snack?), NYC for a 3-hour layover (the Port Authority Terminal hasn't changed in decades) and bus change, Baltimore for another meal break, (Sbarro pepperoni slice - not bad), Richmond for a second bus change and another 3-hour layover (the only seat available in the terminal was next to the garbage can - I wonder why it was available - and about a zillion flies), and finally Charlottesville 24 hours later.
I have never been so tired.
This lovely lady, and seller who is of some advanced years, met me there and promptly got lost finding her way out of the terminal and to her vehicle. Oh, boy!
We find her truck and surprise surprise, we don't have the detailed maps of Charlottesville I had sent her and she has no idea how she found the bus terminal let alone how to find her way back to the highway. Not to be delayed by incidentals such as going in the right direction, we hurtled off for some random point - at a high rate of speed.
When, 15 minutes later, I see the bus terminal sailing by, I gave up all hope. Like that guy in the song lost on the Boston Transit. Finally we stumble on a sign pointing to the Interstate. Pure dumb luck. Then my chauffeur informs me that she really doesn't like driving at night. Great! She's chatting away like a three year old who's eaten too much chocolate cake and I'm needing toothpicks to keep my eyes open. The speedo is somewhere north of 80.
She stays in her lane by jerking to the right or left when she hears the BBBBBRRRRRRPPPPP of her tires on the edges of the lane.
Finally, we turn down a driveway lined with pine trees and pull up in front of the largest garage I've ever seen. And there, in the garage is my baby. I mumble apologies about being so exhausted and when she opens the door to show me the inside, I almost fall on my face. We say our goodnights and I tumble into a deep dark pit of exhaustion and neither see or hear anything until 8:00 AM the next morning when a cheery voice pipes at the door, "Good morning, Ginger. I have a cup of coffee for you here."
Oh boy! I'm there.
Ginger
1. Getting there
2. Being there
3. Getting back.
This is Part One: Getting There
There were three ways to get there (the northern part of Virginia where my LD resided), air, train and bus. Air was out right from the start since I don't have a passport. There appears to be no way to get from Toronto to Harrisonburg, (or anywhere near there), in less than two days by train. Hell, it's only about 650 miles! So that leaves the bus. Twenty-four hours, and $150.00 later I find myself in Charlottesburg VA.
What is it about bus travelers? We left the terminal at 9:30 PM. Most of these people have had all day, or at least all evening to eat dinner, call all their friends and use the bathroom but immediately upon leaving the terminal, out come the lunch bags, snack packages or cell phones, for some, a veritable smorsgabord of goodies accompanied by the squeaks, beeps, squawks and various tunes of their cell phones. And a steady stream of people for the tiny bathroom. Since I had the misfortune of sitting at the rear of the bus, I was subjected to repeated bumps and shoves as each squeezed past my seat.
I found myself seated beside a lady of proportions somewhat in excess of the width of her seat who had an MP3-playing cell phone and who sang along with her tunes when not responding to her phone's repeated bleatings of "Miss you have a text message." The previous occupant of my seat had folded the aisle arm rest down and for the life of me I could not figure out how to raise it. I spent the first leg of the trip in mortal danger of tumbling out of my seat onto the floor of the aisle. Welcome to bus Hell.
We stopped at Lewiston to cross the border (looooong slow lineup at Immigration then collect luggage and pass through Customs), Buffalo to change drivers, Syracuse for a snack, (at 3:00 AM for Goodness sake... who wants to snack?), NYC for a 3-hour layover (the Port Authority Terminal hasn't changed in decades) and bus change, Baltimore for another meal break, (Sbarro pepperoni slice - not bad), Richmond for a second bus change and another 3-hour layover (the only seat available in the terminal was next to the garbage can - I wonder why it was available - and about a zillion flies), and finally Charlottesville 24 hours later.
I have never been so tired.
This lovely lady, and seller who is of some advanced years, met me there and promptly got lost finding her way out of the terminal and to her vehicle. Oh, boy!
We find her truck and surprise surprise, we don't have the detailed maps of Charlottesville I had sent her and she has no idea how she found the bus terminal let alone how to find her way back to the highway. Not to be delayed by incidentals such as going in the right direction, we hurtled off for some random point - at a high rate of speed.
When, 15 minutes later, I see the bus terminal sailing by, I gave up all hope. Like that guy in the song lost on the Boston Transit. Finally we stumble on a sign pointing to the Interstate. Pure dumb luck. Then my chauffeur informs me that she really doesn't like driving at night. Great! She's chatting away like a three year old who's eaten too much chocolate cake and I'm needing toothpicks to keep my eyes open. The speedo is somewhere north of 80.
She stays in her lane by jerking to the right or left when she hears the BBBBBRRRRRRPPPPP of her tires on the edges of the lane.
Finally, we turn down a driveway lined with pine trees and pull up in front of the largest garage I've ever seen. And there, in the garage is my baby. I mumble apologies about being so exhausted and when she opens the door to show me the inside, I almost fall on my face. We say our goodnights and I tumble into a deep dark pit of exhaustion and neither see or hear anything until 8:00 AM the next morning when a cheery voice pipes at the door, "Good morning, Ginger. I have a cup of coffee for you here."
Oh boy! I'm there.
Ginger
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The Search Goes On
The search goes on. Thank goodness I didn't get embroiled in that money-pit in Memphis.
The next breakthrough - I discover Craig's List. No, wait a sec, let me back up. I had been looking for LDs in the on-line RV Trader sites (two of them) and in the for sale section of the Yahoo Lazy Daze group plus random and irregular Google searches of the web. It seemed, to me, that there was a vast black hole somewhere in the universe into which all 1992 26.5' Lazy Dazes were tumbling. I found everything but what I wanted and needed.
Then, someone posted on the Yahoo group that they had found the LD they wanted through massive searches of Craig's List. (By the way, it was a 1992 - major bummer and goodly amounts of envy - that should have been my LD).So I added this to my now daily search regimen. Oh my aching fingers.
As it turns out, all that Craig's List-ing was unnecessary. I found my LD on the RV Trader site. It was a terrible ad: not even a picture, no mention of what floorplan, colour or optional equipment. But it was the right year and length. It was a private ad posted by a lady in Virginia. Well! That sure beats California and even Tennessee for distance. For me, that's just through New York and Pennsylvania and presto! there's Virginia. Well, OK, there's Maryland too and maybe a bit of West Virginia but just tiny bits. Hardly worth mentioning, right?
By the way, why does West Virginia exist? Why isn't it all just Virginia? Or why isn't it West Virginia and East Virginia? Same goes for North and South Carolina, North and South Dakota. We Canadians don't chop provinces up into North and South Alberta or East and West Ontario. Oh well... Anyway, back to the saga.
I called the seller who turned out to be a delightful lady by the name of Wilma. She had bought a newer 30 foot LD and this, of course, necessitated selling the older one. The one she was selling sounded to be in very good shape, well maintained and with some nice extra goodies such as two, count 'em, two solar panels and six newish tires. On the down side it was my least favourite floorplan - the Rear Bath - and the colour was silver which comes out better only than brown but by a vanishingly small margin.She was happy to have someone come and look it over and even take it to an RV dealer for a professional going-over. We had a nice chat about Lazy Dazes and this 'n that. She was quite a chatter-box and totally charming. I liked her right from the start. I almost told her I would buy it then and there but I restrained myself.
Images of senior citizen con artists popped into my head just in time. I saw visions of banks of computer terminals manned by grey haired retirees in headsets sweet-talking us youngsters out of our hard-earned savings. Yeah, right... Anyway, a cooler head prevailed and I set out to find an evaluator samaritan or at least a local RV dealer, deep in the terra incognita hills, (they call them mountains), of Virginia.
I posted a request in the Yahoo "lifeinalazydazerv" group for someone, who I would compensate, who was near the RV's location, who could take a look and/or maybe deal with the local RV service operation on my behalf. Now, this wasn't such an unreasonable request: people made them all the time and usually someone responds positively. Not this time. Someone made the suggestion of just contacting a local RV shop. Well, hmmm, I guess...
I decided to post the same request in the Internet news group rec.outdoors.rv-travel (RORT). Now, moderated groups like the Yahoo LD group and kind of warm and fuzzy: friendly and supportive. Un-moderated newsgroups like RORT are more free-wheeling, edgy and sometimes downright mean. Kinda like the difference between Pleasantville and New York City. I had few hopes of finding my "white knight" and some fear of getting smacked around (electronically speaking). But nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I posted my story and request and waited......
My white knight, who shall hence forward be referred to as "Sir Frank", answered and volunteered to go for a looksee. I immediately called Wilma and asked if she would be alright with this, (older lady, strange man, could be a problem), but she was fine. (I later learned that not much fazes Wilma.) I gave her the details and passed on hers to Sir Frank. And immediately began fussing.
While we're waiting for the results I'll tell you a snippet about Wilma. To begin, this lady is past retirement age and a couple of decades older than me. I have no plans to climb up into the over-cab bed to sleep. Uh, uh, not me, no way. The reason she bought the bigger unit was to get a proper bed, on ground zero so to speak, on the insistence of her son who isn't OK with her climbing up into and out of the over-cab bed. She had no problem with it herself. And that sums up Wilma. Adventurous and fearless. Back to the story.
After a couple of days of world-class fussing I come home to voice mail from Sir Frank and e-mail with a link to a web page he had set up with pictures!!!! He was shown everything but the water heater - no water in the rig - and assured that the non-functioning dash air would be repaired. Everything worked as expected and was found as described. The rig was clean and in good shape and he recommended buying it. He also mentioned that while he was there, Wilma took a call from another interested party.
Even though it wasn't the desired floorplan and colour, I wasn't going to let it get away from me. I called Wima, made her an offer and she accepted! So, two years of study, wishing, hoping, dreaming, envy and of course, fussing, were finally coming to an end and I (almost) owned a Lazy Daze RV - my first motorhome.
Good grief, what have I done? Well, I've spent a largish sum of money on a complex machine in a foreign country owned by a stranger on the advice of a stranger which I must navigate across 650 miles and an international border - all by myself.
Are you curious to see her?
Pretty, isn't she?
Catch you later,
Ginger
The next breakthrough - I discover Craig's List. No, wait a sec, let me back up. I had been looking for LDs in the on-line RV Trader sites (two of them) and in the for sale section of the Yahoo Lazy Daze group plus random and irregular Google searches of the web. It seemed, to me, that there was a vast black hole somewhere in the universe into which all 1992 26.5' Lazy Dazes were tumbling. I found everything but what I wanted and needed.
Then, someone posted on the Yahoo group that they had found the LD they wanted through massive searches of Craig's List. (By the way, it was a 1992 - major bummer and goodly amounts of envy - that should have been my LD).
As it turns out, all that Craig's List-ing was unnecessary. I found my LD on the RV Trader site. It was a terrible ad: not even a picture, no mention of what floorplan, colour or optional equipment. But it was the right year and length. It was a private ad posted by a lady in Virginia. Well! That sure beats California and even Tennessee for distance. For me, that's just through New York and Pennsylvania and presto! there's Virginia. Well, OK, there's Maryland too and maybe a bit of West Virginia but just tiny bits. Hardly worth mentioning, right?
By the way, why does West Virginia exist? Why isn't it all just Virginia? Or why isn't it West Virginia and East Virginia? Same goes for North and South Carolina, North and South Dakota. We Canadians don't chop provinces up into North and South Alberta or East and West Ontario. Oh well... Anyway, back to the saga.
I called the seller who turned out to be a delightful lady by the name of Wilma. She had bought a newer 30 foot LD and this, of course, necessitated selling the older one. The one she was selling sounded to be in very good shape, well maintained and with some nice extra goodies such as two, count 'em, two solar panels and six newish tires. On the down side it was my least favourite floorplan - the Rear Bath - and the colour was silver which comes out better only than brown but by a vanishingly small margin.
Images of senior citizen con artists popped into my head just in time. I saw visions of banks of computer terminals manned by grey haired retirees in headsets sweet-talking us youngsters out of our hard-earned savings. Yeah, right... Anyway, a cooler head prevailed and I set out to find an evaluator samaritan or at least a local RV dealer, deep in the terra incognita hills, (they call them mountains), of Virginia.
I posted a request in the Yahoo "lifeinalazydazerv" group for someone, who I would compensate, who was near the RV's location, who could take a look and/or maybe deal with the local RV service operation on my behalf. Now, this wasn't such an unreasonable request: people made them all the time and usually someone responds positively. Not this time. Someone made the suggestion of just contacting a local RV shop. Well, hmmm, I guess...
I decided to post the same request in the Internet news group rec.outdoors.rv-travel (RORT). Now, moderated groups like the Yahoo LD group and kind of warm and fuzzy: friendly and supportive. Un-moderated newsgroups like RORT are more free-wheeling, edgy and sometimes downright mean. Kinda like the difference between Pleasantville and New York City. I had few hopes of finding my "white knight" and some fear of getting smacked around (electronically speaking). But nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I posted my story and request and waited......
My white knight, who shall hence forward be referred to as "Sir Frank", answered and volunteered to go for a looksee. I immediately called Wilma and asked if she would be alright with this, (older lady, strange man, could be a problem), but she was fine. (I later learned that not much fazes Wilma.) I gave her the details and passed on hers to Sir Frank. And immediately began fussing.
While we're waiting for the results I'll tell you a snippet about Wilma. To begin, this lady is past retirement age and a couple of decades older than me. I have no plans to climb up into the over-cab bed to sleep. Uh, uh, not me, no way. The reason she bought the bigger unit was to get a proper bed, on ground zero so to speak, on the insistence of her son who isn't OK with her climbing up into and out of the over-cab bed. She had no problem with it herself. And that sums up Wilma. Adventurous and fearless. Back to the story.
After a couple of days of world-class fussing I come home to voice mail from Sir Frank and e-mail with a link to a web page he had set up with pictures!!!! He was shown everything but the water heater - no water in the rig - and assured that the non-functioning dash air would be repaired. Everything worked as expected and was found as described. The rig was clean and in good shape and he recommended buying it. He also mentioned that while he was there, Wilma took a call from another interested party.
Even though it wasn't the desired floorplan and colour, I wasn't going to let it get away from me. I called Wima, made her an offer and she accepted! So, two years of study, wishing, hoping, dreaming, envy and of course, fussing, were finally coming to an end and I (almost) owned a Lazy Daze RV - my first motorhome.
Good grief, what have I done? Well, I've spent a largish sum of money on a complex machine in a foreign country owned by a stranger on the advice of a stranger which I must navigate across 650 miles and an international border - all by myself.
Are you curious to see her?
Pretty, isn't she?
Catch you later,
Ginger
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Catching Up
Oh, my! The last post here was way back in March. So much has happened... where to begin.
Firstly, let me till you "the rest of the story" about the Lazy Daze in Tennessee. That darn rig caused me more fussing than any broken romance. I checked that ad - at least weekly, (oh OK OK almost daily), - until it disappeared. Poof! Much regret and second-guessing followed. I should have bought it and stored it 'til July. I watched the ads like a hawk for other '92s for sale; not even one. Then, in July when I hadn't found another unit and the original one would have been importable I found "my" LD in someone's blog. I was searching the 'net for Lazy Dazes for sale, and came across the blog of the scoundrel who had purchased "my" LD.
Well, let me tell you, did he ever buy himself a world of hurt. If he paid the price the owner had was asking me, he got fleeced good and proper. The blog didn't say whether he knew about the rig's problems before he bought it or whether he knew but didn't understand the cost to repair the damage or what, but the rig had been leaking around the fridge vent for some time and the wall and floor was rotted. The rot was so bad that when he filled the fresh water tank you could see the side panel open up as a result of the floor sagging under the weight of the full tank.
This is a very bad situation. In an RV, water is not on your side. Sometimes, my friends, things happen for a reason. If this guy is handy and he was savvy about the water damage and negotiated hard for a much reduced price then he may come out of this with a rig suited to his needs. I do not need a project. I am not handy. Don't want to learn how to be handy. I want a rig where everything works and I will pay people to keep them working.
Here's a link to the poor soul's blog. I have forgiven him for snatching "my" Lazy Daze.
http://www.coxontool.com/index.php/LazyDaze/HomePage
And here's a link to the water damage page.
http://www.coxontool.com/index.php/LazyDaze/MajorWaterLeak
It took until August to find the right rig for me. It wasn't exactly what I was looking for but it was perfect for me. I will post the saga of my journey acquiring it and getting it home.
Catch you later,
Ginger
Firstly, let me till you "the rest of the story" about the Lazy Daze in Tennessee. That darn rig caused me more fussing than any broken romance. I checked that ad - at least weekly, (oh OK OK almost daily), - until it disappeared. Poof! Much regret and second-guessing followed. I should have bought it and stored it 'til July. I watched the ads like a hawk for other '92s for sale; not even one. Then, in July when I hadn't found another unit and the original one would have been importable I found "my" LD in someone's blog. I was searching the 'net for Lazy Dazes for sale, and came across the blog of the scoundrel who had purchased "my" LD.
Well, let me tell you, did he ever buy himself a world of hurt. If he paid the price the owner had was asking me, he got fleeced good and proper. The blog didn't say whether he knew about the rig's problems before he bought it or whether he knew but didn't understand the cost to repair the damage or what, but the rig had been leaking around the fridge vent for some time and the wall and floor was rotted. The rot was so bad that when he filled the fresh water tank you could see the side panel open up as a result of the floor sagging under the weight of the full tank.
This is a very bad situation. In an RV, water is not on your side. Sometimes, my friends, things happen for a reason. If this guy is handy and he was savvy about the water damage and negotiated hard for a much reduced price then he may come out of this with a rig suited to his needs. I do not need a project. I am not handy. Don't want to learn how to be handy. I want a rig where everything works and I will pay people to keep them working.
Here's a link to the poor soul's blog. I have forgiven him for snatching "my" Lazy Daze.
http://www.coxontool.com/index.php/LazyDaze/HomePage
And here's a link to the water damage page.
http://www.coxontool.com/index.php/LazyDaze/MajorWaterLeak
It took until August to find the right rig for me. It wasn't exactly what I was looking for but it was perfect for me. I will post the saga of my journey acquiring it and getting it home.
Catch you later,
Ginger
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Bessa Me Mucho
The famous Life Magazine photograph taken by Alfred Eisenstaedt I'm weird, I admit it. Valentine's Day was over a month ago and I got to thinking about kissing now. So Idecided to Google "history of kissing"... 1,310,000 entries later... well not exactly. There were, 1,310,00 entries: I didn't read them all, just the first 100 or so promising ones. If was a fun way to spend a couple of hours. I'd like to share some of this stuff with you.
Most of what follows are direct quotes from various web sites. There's lots more where each comes from so click the link following the exerpt to get the whole story. Well here goes.
No one really knows where the first smooch came from. One less-than-romantic theory suggests it began with ancient mothers passing chewed-up food to babies, which is 1) not sexy, and 2) gross. And kissing isn’t universal: People in Japan and Siberia only started kissing relatively recently, and some sub-Saharan African societies still don’t do it.
The erotic significance of the kiss didn’t come dominant in Europe until the 17th century. Not coincidentally, that was around the same time that dentists in France first promoted the use of toothbrushes. (Yes, the French were on the cutting edge of dental hygiene!) Before toothbrushes, the average European mouth was such a grim place that 16th-century maids often carried clove-studded apples when courting, insisting their suitors take a bite before attempting a kiss.
http://www.neatorama.com/2007/03/09/k-i-s-s-i-n-g-tidbits-from-the-history-of-kissing/
The article above, from mental_floss’ book Scatterbrained. is published in Neatorama with permission.
[Wow! I quoted a quote. Ginger]
----------------------------------
References to kissing did not appear until 1500 B.C. when historians found four major texts in the Vedic Sanskrit literature of India that suggested an early form of kissing. "There are references to the custom of rubbing and pressing noses together. This practice, it is recorded, was a sign of affection, especially between lovers," Bryant said. "This is not kissing as we know it today, but we believe it may have been its earliest beginning."
About 500 to 1,000 years later, the epic Mahabharata, contained references suggesting that affection between people was expressed by lip kissing. Later, the Kama Sutra, a classic text on erotica, contained many examples of erotic kissing and kissing techniques.
With the conquering armies of Alexander the Great, the Greeks learned about kissing from the Indians, then helped spread the practice throughout Europe and Asia around 326 B.C.
However, Bryant says, the Romans should be credited for popularizing kissing. They had several forms of kissing, including the osculum, which was a kiss of friendship often delivered as a peck on the cheek as a form of affection, not passion. This was such a popular form of kissing that members of the Roman senate often exchanged this sign of affection at the opening of each session. Non-senators would kiss a senator's toga as a sign of respect for the person and his office.
http://giving.tamu.edu/libarts/content/newsandevents/headlinenews/news.php?get=212&area=1
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Kissing as symbolism
A symbolic kissWhen not an expression of affection, a kiss is a largely symbolic gesture in that the purpose of the kiss is to convey a meaning, such as salutations or subordination, rather than to experience the physical sensations associated with kissing.
Kisses on the cheek as salutations are traditional in many parts of continental Europe, and the number of kisses, alternating cheeks, depends on which region one comes from.
Kissing may also be used to signify reverence and subordination, as in kissing the ring of a queen or other figure. A kiss can also be rude or done for the sake of irritating or proving one's superiority.
[Like dominance humping by dogs? Ginger]
A more ominous use of the kiss is as a symbol of condemnation as may be observed when a crime lord kisses an underling, in effect imposing a death sentence upon that person, the ultimate "goodbye kiss" or the "kiss of death". Indeed, Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss.
Kissing is a complex behaviour that requires significant muscular coordination; in fact, a total of twenty muscles working cooperatively.
The 1896 short film The Kiss featured the first known screen kiss, a forty-seven second recreation of a stage kiss from the musical The Widow Jones. The movie was considered scandalous at the time of its release but has since entered film history as one of the most memorable early films. The longest onscreen kiss was performed by Gregory Smith and Stephanie Sherrin in the 2005 film Kids in America and lasted "just over six minutes."
The Romans distinguished three types of kiss: osculum, a friendship kiss on the cheek; basium, a kiss of affection on the lips; and suavium (also known as savium), a lovers' deep kiss.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kiss
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Until 1528, the holy kiss was part of Catholic mass. In the 13th century, the Catholic Church substituted a pax board, which the congregation kissed instead of kissing one another. The Protestant Reformation in the 1500s removed the kiss from Protestant services entirely.
But not all kisses have been happy events. Works of literature like "Romeo and Juliet" have portrayed kisses as dangerous or deadly when shared between the wrong people. Some folklorists and literary critics view vampirism as symbolic of the physical and emotional dangers that can come from kissing the wrong person.
Kiss of Judas
One of the Western world's most famous kisses is the kiss
Judas Iscariot used to betray Jesus shortly before his crucifixion. This kiss had an influence on Christian spiritual practices. Early church sects omitted the holy kiss – or abstained from kissing entirely – on Maundy Thursday. Maundy Thursday is the Thursday before Easter and the day used to commemorate the Last Supper, after which Judas betrayed Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane.
When you really think about it, kissing is pretty gross. It involves saliva and mucous membranes, and it may have historical roots in chewed-up food. Experts estimate that hundreds or even millions of bacterial colonies move from one mouth to another during a kiss. Doctors have also linked kissing to the spread of diseases like meningitis, herpes and mononucleosis.
Yet anthropologists report that 90 percent of the people in the world kiss. Most people look forward to their first romantic kiss and remember it for the rest of their lives. Parents kiss children, worshippers kiss religious artifacts and couples kiss each other. Some people even kiss the ground when they get off an airplane.
So how does one gesture come to signify affection, celebration, grief, comfort and respect, all over the world? No one knows for sure, but anthropologists think kissing might have originated with human mothers feeding their babies much the way birds do. Mothers would chew the food and then pass it from their mouths to their babies' mouths. After the babies learned to eat solid food, their mothers may have kissed them to comfort them or to show affection.
Do We Have to Hear the Kissing Part?
Modern research suggests that just about every culture on the planet kisses. However, anthropologists and ethnologists have described a few cultures in Asia, Africa and South America that do not kiss at all. Some of these cultures view kissing as disgusting or distasteful. However, other researchers point out that these societies may view kissing as too private to discuss with strangers. In other words, they might kiss but not talk about it.
Kissing the Blarney Stone
Tourists visiting Ireland often stop by Blarney Castle near Cork to kiss the Blarney Stone. It's said that kissing the stone bestows the kisser with the gift of blarney, or eloquence. Kissing the Blarney Stone takes a lot more than just lips. To reach it, people have to lie on their backs, hold a set of handrails and tip their heads backwards until they are essentially upside down.
Anyone who has ever been kissed knows that the sensations involved aren't confined to the mouth. Your facial nerve carries impulses between your brain and the muscles and skin in your face and tongue. While you kiss, it carries messages from your lips, tongue and face to your brain to tell it what's going on.
Your brain responds by ordering your body to produce:
Oxytocin, which helps people develop feelings of attachment, devotion and affection for one another
Dopamine, which plays a role in the brain's processing of emotions, pleasure and pain
Serotonin, which affects a person's mood and feelings
Adrenaline, which increases heart rate and plays a role in your body's fight-or-flight response
http://people.howstuffworks.com/kissing1.htm
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When parents kiss their children it means one thing, but when they kiss each other it means something entirely different. People will greet a total stranger with a kiss on the cheek, and then use an identical gesture to express their most intimate feelings to a lover. The mob kingpin gives the kiss of death, Catholics give the "kiss of peace," Jews kiss the Torah, nervous flyers kiss the ground, and the enraged sometimes demand that a kiss be applied to their hindquarters. Judas kissed Jesus, Madonna kissed Britney, a gambler kisses the dice for luck. Someone once even kissed a car for 54 hours straight.
The German language has words for 30 different kinds of kisses, including nachküssen, which is defined as a kiss "making up for kisses that have been omitted."
There are two possibilities: Either the kiss is a human universal, one of the constellation of innate traits, including language and laughter, that unites us as a
species, or it is an invention, like fire or wearing clothes, an idea so good that it was bound to metastasize across the globe.
Scientists have found evidence for both hypotheses. Other species engage in behavior that looks an awful lot like the smooch (though without its erotic overtones), which implies that kissing might be just as animalistic an impulse as it sometimes feels. Snails caress each other with their antennae, birds touch beaks, and many mammals lick each other's snouts. Chimpanzees even give platonic pecks on the lips. But only humans and our lascivious primate cousins the bonobos engage in full-fledged tongue-on-tongue tonsil- hockey.
All across Africa, the Pacific and the Americas, we find cultures that didn't know about mouth kissing until their first contact with European explorers. And the attraction was not always immediately apparent. Most considered the act of exchanging saliva revolting.
Among the Lapps of northern Finland, both sexes would bathe together in a state of complete nudity, but kissing was regarded as beyond the pale.
To this day, public kissing is still seen as indecent in many parts of the world. In 1990, the Beijing-based Workers' Daily advised its readers that "the invasive Europeans brought the kissing custom to China, but it is regarded as a vulgar practice which is all too suggestive of cannibalism."
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/02/14/opinion/14foer.html?
ex=1297573200&en=64bad474e17f3713&ei=5088&
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Ooh la la! – The “French” Kiss
Smooching Culture
The Japanese have always been extremely bashful about kissing, as puckering up in public is considered taboo On the other hand, many Southern Europeans have a more liberal attitude toward sex, making PDAs (personal displays of affection) an acceptable practice In Belgium, respecting your elders is a primary concern during greetings. When someone is 10 years your senior, it is commonly-accepted to bestow them with three kisses
http://www.closeup.com/news/news_kisstory.asp
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In For Whom the Bell Tolls, Ingrid Bergman -- playing a girl who's never been kissed before -- is about to be smooched by Gary Cooper, and she asks "Where do the noses go?"
Fess up -- that was the same thing you worried about on your first date, wasn't it?
Kissing Under the Mistletoe Derives From Norse Myths -
[I'm not going to quote parts of this great little story about kissing under the Mistletoe. But I bet you'll enjoy it. Ginger]
http://holidays.about.com/od/decorationscelebrations/a/mistletoe_2.htm
Here's a great little book for you or your sweetheart.
[Hmmm, I wonder how "sweetheart" came into favour as a term of endearment? Why not "sweetliver"? or sweetspleen? Ginger]
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